


It Is No Gift I Tender

by Kate_Lear



Series: Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes [4]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 20:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 58,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15871635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: Morse returns to Oxford and tries to pick up his old life, while DeBryn tries to move on.(set during series 3)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Final installment of this trilogy! Thanks to fengirl88 for encouragement and a listening ear, and knowing when to give an opinion and when to just make sympathetic noises in reponse to my rambling at her - I owe you many glasses of wine (& real ale & opera...)
> 
> Please do let me know if you spot any typos or inconsistencies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set around the events of Ride.

In late March the sun rose around seven o’clock, sending fingers of light creeping around DeBryn’s bedroom curtains and rousing the starlings nesting in the eaves to twitter and scuffle overhead, and sometimes waking him before his alarm clock. Not that he saw it on this particular morning, for by the time the first pink of the dawn touched the eastern sky DeBryn was already navigating the little Morris around the ruts and potholes of the estate track.

Twice within almost as many days. He smiled humourlessly. To paraphrase a greater wit than himself: one corpse on a man’s land might be considered an accident, but two began to look like carelessness. When the call had come through he had been told to ask for directions up at the main house; at the main house the butler had directed him to the lakeshore with such an air of distaste – looking at DeBryn as though he were a tradesman, rather than a doctor – that DeBryn had been sorely tempted to pull out his official Home Office identity card and force the man to climb into the car to navigate.

He yawned widely as he drove. Hauled out of his comfortable bed by the telephone’s strident clatter to race down the stairs and stand in the hallway, shivering, while the duty sergeant delivered the summons. A telephone extension in the bedroom would be a solution, save that the idea of being jerked from slumber by a sharp shrill right in his ear held even less appeal than current arrangements.

His comfortable but solitary bed.

Unbidden, his memory transported him back to the blissful months when it had been occupied. Tangled in the sheets, blind and deaf to anything except each other, and twining together afterwards to sleep. Even two months later, his grief still had the power to wrench his heart and DeBryn breathed deeply through the familiar pain. It was little comfort to repeat to himself that Morse was undoubtedly better where he was. Where in the world that may be DeBryn no idea, for he had found that, despite what Eliot thought, it ended with neither a bang nor a whimper but with silence. 

He never had learned the full story of Blenheim Vale, of what Morse had got himself tangled up in. Strange and Jakes didn’t mention him at all, their silence so complete that one could almost be forgiven for thinking the fellow had died. On the sole occasion DeBryn had ventured to ask after him he was told curtly that no-one had seen Morse since his release.

The fellow must have handed in his papers. Invited to do so, no doubt – that or be fired in disgrace. Perhaps he had somehow been able to bargain a quiet exit. Where would he have gone? No more capable than Housman of reaching Saturn or Mercury but perhaps the more forgiving society of London, or to Paris as he had once suggested.

As mornings went, this was a pleasant one to be up and about: a clear sky promising a perfect day ahead, the new leaves on the trees yet to lose their pale green freshness, and only the noise of the Morris’ engine cutting through the hush. On another day DeBryn might have packed a lunch and set off into the woods around Oxford. He had finally been exploring them, as he had always intended when he moved here; an activity taken up to fill the weekends that had formerly seemed so short, and now stretched interminably long.

This must be the spot. There was the parking lay-by at the side of the road, with the lake perfectly flat and shimmering silver in the sun, and a few daffodils bobbing under the poplar trees. There was a small boathouse a hundred yards away, and two men by the edge of the lake, one sprawled on the ground. Clearly DeBryn’s patient; even from here DeBryn could glimpse the shirtfront soaked in blood. The other fellow was pacing up and down, arms folded across his chest.

DeBryn knew him instantly.

It may have been two months but that fiery hair and the sleek lines of him were branded into DeBryn’s memory, and he made a bit of a fuss of pulling off the road to park, giving himself a few moments to gather his composure and mask his shock. All this time he had been imagining Morse miles away, vanished irretrievably and never to return to Oxford, and as it turned out he had been less than an hour’s drive from DeBryn’s front door.

Shock had time to morph into dismay and finally nerves as DeBryn gathered his kit and approached.

‘Morse.’

Morse turned to face him. ‘Doctor DeBryn.’

He looked dreadful: white as a sheet, and his folded arms seemingly the only thing keeping him from jittering straight out of his skin. DeBryn glanced at the corpse and winced: the face was reduced a pulpy mess from what looked like a point blank shotgun blast, and the shirtfront sodden almost to the waist with blood. There were pinkish stains all down Morse’s grubby white shirt, and DeBryn noted the tremor in his hands, the clamminess of his skin, and – further away – a pool of vomit splattered at the base of a tree.

He had been called to tend to the dead, but there were moments when the living had to take priority.

‘Are you staying up at the house?’ DeBryn set down his kit by the body and pulled out his notebook, observing Morse in his peripheral vision. ‘I should get along up there. Change out of your wet things.’

Of course the fool had no more sense than to jump in the lake and then stand and shiver in wet clothes and DeBryn frowned, looking at Morse’s shaking hands. Morse set his jaw, folding his arms to jam his palms tightly against his ribs.

‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘Over there.’ He jerked his chin towards the boathouse, and DeBryn looked again and saw that it was actually a tiny cabin.

‘You should go there, then.’ DeBryn turned away and busied himself unpacking his instruments. ‘Duty discharged. Go and take a hot shower.’

‘No. No, I can’t leave him.’

DeBryn’s lips pursed. Since when had Morse been so keen to linger in the presence of death an instant longer than necessary? Who was this man, and what was he to Morse?

But he hardly looked in his right mind. In fact he looked like an escaped lunatic – wild-eyed and fidgety – and DeBryn pointed out rather more gently: ‘You need a jacket, though, or you’ll catch a chill.’

Morse stared at him, seemingly uncomprehending.

‘A jacket, Morse,’ DeBryn repeated, raising his voice slightly. ‘Do you have one?’

‘In the cabin.’

But Morse made no move and DeBryn finally turned away from his kit with an irritated noise. ‘Here.’ He gripped Morse’s arm and steered him to a tree that had the weak morning sun full on it. ‘Sit.’

Morse did so, obedient as a dog, and as he drew his knees up to his chest DeBryn’s worry grew. This wasn’t like him at all: the chap DeBryn knew would have protested, and he bit his lip as he turned away and made for Morse’s cabin.

Worry mingled with annoyance: at Morse for not having more sense than to stand around in wet clothing, at himself for running around after the chap like a trained spaniel. After weeks of silence, of nothing, DeBryn without the slightest clue whether Morse had gone overseas or was barely scraping by in the filthiest digs London could offer... it took barely anything at all and DeBryn was fretting over him once more, and for a moment DeBryn’s Hippocratic Oath warred with the desire to go back there and give Morse a piece of his mind.

In the cabin DeBryn poked about only as long as it took to find a jacket, but even so he couldn’t suppress his natural instincts of quickly noting the contents of a living space: the narrow single bed in the corner and the unstable tower of books on the nightstand, the unused breadbox and the wastepaper basket overflowing with empty Scotch bottles. The record on the turntable, he couldn’t help but notice, was _Rigoletto_ , and his lips tightened.

Did Morse think himself cursed? Or was it thoughts of seclusion, of being shut away from the world, that had led his hand to that one in particular? He had no-one to blame but himself if so, no-one had forced him into this peculiar exile, and DeBryn pawed roughly through Morse’s wardrobe, such as it was.

Best of all would have been his heavy winter overcoat, but it wasn’t here. DeBryn knew exactly where it was: wadded up in the bottom of a bag shoved into the cupboard under the stairs in his house. After that dreadful night in January he hadn’t been able to bring himself to open the bag again. Instead he had buried it in the depths of the stair cupboard, out of sight, in the futile hope that the adage would prove true.

DeBryn fairly stamped back over to Morse, and dropped the jacket unceremoniously onto his knees. ‘Here. Put that on.’

Morse fumbled at the heap of fabric, with slow fingers that looked bone-white and stiff with cold, and DeBryn sank to his knees to tug at it, pulling it firmly around Morse’s shoulders. There was an unhealthy cast to Morse’s skin that DeBryn didn’t like at all, and he raised his wrist to check the sweep of the second hand on his watch as he leaned in to tuck two fingers into the curve of Morse’s jaw.

Morse startled away, vigorously enough that he banged his head on the tree trunk behind him. DeBryn jerked back, baffled – he couldn’t have surprised the fellow, he had telegraphed his movements clearly enough – until he caught Morse staring at his mouth.

The shock must truly have addled his brain if he thought DeBryn would make an affectionate gesture now, of all times.

‘I’m taking your pulse, Morse,’ DeBryn said tartly, reaching instead for Morse’s wrist and pressing his fingers to the radial pulse, tightening his grip when Morse tried to tug his hand back. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, will you.’

Oddly, Morse had no rejoinder to that, and DeBryn counted the beats against his fingers as he watched the second hand tick around on his watch, until he dropped Morse’s hand. ‘You’ve a touch of shock. I would tell you to have a stiff drink, but from what I see you’ve been doing quite enough of that already.’

Morse’s shoulders twitched irritably, and DeBryn turned away to attend to his real patient, ignoring the simultaneous urges to shout at Morse with every hurt thought and bitter regret of the past two months, and also to sink to his knees and rub some life back into his icy hands, until he stopped looking so very lost.

At Thursday and Jakes’ arrival DeBryn’s face heated. It was one thing to struggle against showing his concern when Morse himself was too dazed to know what was happening, quite another to maintain his composure with Morse’s old protector hovering over the chap. Even, in his own way, fussing over him, like a mother hen with a favourite chick.

It was a relief when Thursday bore Morse off to the house. DeBryn very nearly raised his head to say something about hot sweet tea, but bit his tongue. Thursday was a sensible man, he would know the same remedies as DeBryn.

Whatever he did it worked: when they returned DeBryn glanced discreetly at Morse and noted he had a touch more colour in his cheeks, and something like his old sharpness in his eyes.

In the meantime DeBryn had been forming his own conclusions about what sort of man the deceased had been, assessing his well-cut evening suit, his manicured hands. Was this the sort of world Morse was stepping into, then? Leaving behind blood and death and his planned studies for... what? To become one of the idle rich?

Kneeling on the damp ground, doubtless pressing grass stains into the knees of his trousers that would never come out no matter how much he washed them, DeBryn swallowed a surge of resentment. Just because a job was distasteful didn’t mean it didn’t need doing; if he had sufficient funds then he too could spend his life appreciating the finer things, refusing to soil his hands with grim realities, a gold gambling chip tucked jauntily in his pocket for luck. Not that it had brought the poor sod much luck, but DeBryn couldn’t find even his customary sympathy for the fellow.

His resentment grew when it transpired this man’s death was able to achieve what DeBryn – during low moments, his resolve at its weakest in the small hours of the night, lonely in his too-large bed – would have given all he possessed to achieve. Morse’s return to Oxford.

‘Get your head down for a few hours,’ Thursday said gruffly, as DeBryn scribbled his last few notes and wondered whether Morse even noticed the man’s solicitude. ‘You've been up all night.’

Out of the corner of his eye, DeBryn saw Morse straighten. ‘Oh, I'm fine. I can start now.’

He blinked, the rest of the conversation passing him by as his mind raced. Had Morse not handed in his papers? How was it possible? After the scandal, the rumours that had sent him to prison, how could it be that he was willing to return? And, more importantly, that OCP were willing to keep him?

Perhaps, once upon a time, he might have been permitted to ask, but that time was dead and gone and in the wake of Thursday’s departure, DeBryn got silently to his feet, knees cracking. He could hardly go to work like this, and he sighed, already annoyed at the time lost in having to go home to change.

He didn’t look at Morse’s face. He couldn’t, this was painful enough as it was.

During the long winter nights, with only his own grief for company, his heart had whispered to him that perhaps their first meeting might take place over a drink, or a supper offered by a penitent Morse in apology for his abrupt departure and long silence. But no; as usual hope had triumphed over sense, and instead they were meeting here, in a fashion that left Morse no possible other way to avoid him. If the victim hadn’t died then Morse might have lived out the year not twenty miles from DeBryn.

But if events had been different then perhaps Morse wouldn’t have remained in that forlorn little hut for long. He seemed to have developed a strong attachment to this chap in a short time, and DeBryn may not have all the pieces of this particular puzzle but those he did have sketched out a picture he was familiar with.

There had been party invitations lying on the side table by the reading lamp, printed on heavy, expensive cardstock, and Morse was wearing an evening suit. Invitations from this fellow, presumably, and last autumn DeBryn would have confidently bet his entire pathologist’s kit that Morse wasn’t one for high society parties. But it seemed he didn’t know the fellow as well as he had thought.

The snap of his notebook closing seemed loud in the silence, loud enough to shake Morse out of his daze.

‘Doctor.’ Morse glanced down at himself, seeming to notice for the first time the jacket around his shoulders. His hair had dried uncombed into worse disarray than usual, and the morning sun caught the bright copper tones of it. ‘I...’

Whatever he had to say, DeBryn found he didn’t want to hear it. It was two months too late.

‘That sounds like the coroner’s van.’ DeBryn packed away his kit. ‘I’d best go and meet them.’ He snapped the clasp shut, and added: ‘You’re free to go. Nothing for you here.’

Picking up his case, DeBryn turned on his heel and went to meet the coroner’s men, leaving Morse standing alone by the lakeshore. He didn’t look back.

\----------

Despite the cold evening the living room was stuffy, overheated with the presence of so many bodies in it, to say nothing of the central heating, and DeBryn tugged miserably at his collar. He shuffled closer to the open window, moving carefully to avoid tipping over any of the small tables with their load of china ornaments.

A bridge group had seemed a good idea last week, when he was sitting by his hearth and staring disconsolately at the empty armchair opposite. He knew how to play, and he had even entertained the idea of joining a group a couple of years ago. Save that he had met Morse, and suddenly it had been more important to keep his evenings free.

‘Doctor.’ Mrs Pearson approached him and laid a solicitous hand on his forearm. ‘How are you getting on?’

‘Very well, thank you.’ DeBryn mustered a smile.

‘Have you been getting to know people?’ She gave a self-conscious little laugh. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find us a dull lot compared to your colleagues.’

DeBryn murmured a vague reply.

‘There’s another new man too – have you met him yet? We were lucky to find you both. When Mr and Mrs Williams left Oxford we were at our wits’ end; most bridge players are already in a group, you see, and unwilling to break it up to join another.’

DeBryn made a politely interested noise.

‘We’ll be starting in ten minutes.’ She gave his arm a little squeeze and reached for his glass. ‘So let me fetch you another drink.’

‘Most kind,’ DeBryn murmured, sliding out from under her hand, ‘but please don’t trouble yourself, I can manage.’

He was conscious of her gaze on his back as he crossed the room to the drinks cabinet and, instead of filling his glass, set it down and slipped out of the room.

With the mild snobbery of Oxford’s middle class, Mrs Pearson had been delighted to have a doctor join their bridge group; he had introduced himself as Doctor Max DeBryn and mentioned that he worked at Cowley General and her manner had changed between one moment and the next. He rather suspected she assumed he was a surgeon, and he hadn’t the heart to disillusion her by telling her his real speciality. Thank heaven she had no daughters of marriageable age.

The kitchen door was ajar and DeBryn slipped through it, craving a few minutes to himself. It was cooler than the living room and he leaned against the counter, sighing, looking at the gleaming surfaces, the new refrigerator in pride of place.

It was too much to hope for that there would be some urgent need for his presence by the OCP; he wasn’t on call this evening. Perhaps he could invent something? An urgent engagement, previously forgotten and only just recalled? He couldn’t, it would leave them all in a terrible fix to be suddenly one person short, but it was dreadfully tempting.

There was a footstep in the hallway and the kitchen door swung open, and DeBryn braced himself against the interruption of his solitude, readying an apology for straying where he had no business being.

But instead of his host it was a dark-haired man who stepped into the kitchen.

‘Hullo,’ he offered.

‘Hello.’ The kitchen was so sparkling clean that there wasn’t even a stray glass on the draining board that he could seize, under the pretence of needing a drink of water, and DeBryn gripped the edge of the counter and quashed his urge to fidget.

‘I thought I saw you come in here. You’re new, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ The man approached, and DeBryn held out his hand. ‘Max DeBryn.’

The man’s voice was deep, with faint traces of a Scottish accent, and the hand DeBryn clasped was warm, its grip firm. ‘Anthony Elder.’

‘Pleasure.’

Anthony looked at him steadily, almost scrutinising him, and DeBryn raised his eyebrows pointedly.

‘Sorry.’ Anthony dropped DeBryn’s hand and rubbed his nape, glancing away. ‘But have we met before?’

‘I don’t think so.’

The fellow was tall, with brown eyes that held the hint of a smile and dark hair that he had clearly tried to flatten with water for an evening out, but that was steadily reverting to its natural state. He was faintly tanned, with the look of someone who spent a fair bit of time out of doors.

‘I’m sure we have.’ Anthony lifted his eyes to DeBryn’s face once again, frowning searchingly. ‘You seem...familiar.’

Dear God, was this fellow one of the men DeBryn had met out at Godstow? He hadn’t been for months; during the last winter he had been too heartsick, and the previous summer he hadn’t any need, having everything he could possibly want in Morse.

His stomach lurched, his heart rate spiking in panic, until a moment later Anthony’s face cleared. ‘You know my colleague, I think.’

‘Oh yes,’ DeBryn said at once, in a wash of relief, although in that moment he would have agreed to absolutely anything.

‘Chris Knowles,’ Anthony went on. ‘You came in to consult him once.’

‘Yes,’ DeBryn said again, with more sincerity as his memory sharpened. Datura poisoning, Grace Madison. ‘So I did. For a poisoning case. You work at the Botanic Gardens, then?’

‘I share an office with Chris. He introduced us.’

‘Oh yes?’ DeBryn squirmed inwardly. ‘I’m so sorry, terribly rude of me, but I’m afraid I don’t quite remember...’

‘No reason why you should,’ Anthony said easily, brushing aside DeBryn’s awkwardness. ‘You did seem awfully focussed on the question at hand. Important, was it?’

Unbidden, DeBryn recalled Mason Gull, the four bodies in the morgue. Stitching that awful gash in Morse’s side, and the unspeakable dreadfulness of a man’s face melted away by _aqua regis_.

‘You could say that.’ DeBryn pushed the memories aside. ‘How is Chris?’ 

Anthony shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning against the counter next to DeBryn. ‘He’s well. Sends his regards.’ He shifted slightly, looking faintly embarrassed. ‘I mean, he hasn’t really. But I’m sure he would have sent them, if he knew I was going to be seeing you.’

The fellow’s slight misstep was more appealing than any amount of social graces, and DeBryn smiled. ‘So you’re a botanist, then.’

‘Eight years now,’ Anthony agreed. ‘My particular interest is the heathland flora of the British Isles.’

‘Oh yes?’ DeBryn’s interest was piqued. ‘I thought all the interest was in Africa and South America.’

Anthony shrugged. ‘Most of it is. But I find there’s a lot of quiet interest in the less glamorous fields that others overlook.’

It was almost word for word how DeBryn felt about pathology, and he nodded, oddly gratified.

‘But I actually came to ask you if you’d partner me,’ Anthony said. He fidgeted with his wristwatch, his brows pinching. ‘You have played before, haven’t you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well I’m self-taught from a book,’ Anthony said bluntly. ‘I always wanted to give it a go but the groups I rang don’t take on beginners, so I taught myself the rules. Please say you’ll partner me, and forgive me in advance if we lose horribly. I daren’t ask any of the others.’

‘I’m sure we won’t,’ DeBryn said, amused despite himself. ‘But yes, alright.’

‘Thanks awfully.’ Anthony shoved his hands back in his pockets with a sigh, his face clearing. ‘You’ll see I’m not a complete dunce, honestly. But they’re an intimidating lot.’

DeBryn looked at him with new eyes. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one finding the evening a bit overwhelming, and he suggested, ‘Shall we get a drink before we all sit down to the table?’

‘Yes, that would be good,’ said Anthony, smiling down at him. He tilted his head towards the door. ‘After you.’

\----------

So it had been twins after all. It was like the denouement to a second-rate pulp detective story, save that life occasionally provided coincidences that would have been totally unallowable in fiction, and DeBryn wheeled them away to be stored side by side until the bodies were claimed. A rich funeral for one, and presumably a pauper’s grave for the other, and DeBryn slid the drawer shut gently and murmured, ‘There but for the grace of God.’

But it held less bitterness than usual, for he was pleasantly distracted by memories of the previous evening. Anthony had been a sharp learner – it was only because of their prior conversation that DeBryn could attribute his occasional mistakes to beginner’s inexperience rather than absent-mindedness. They had finished in third place, out of the four pairs playing that evening, and somewhat to his surprise DeBryn had left at the end of the night thinking that this may have been one of his better ideas.

The mortuary door banged, rousing him, and DeBryn turned to see Morse glancing warily around him.

His good mood vanished. ‘Morse.’

‘Doctor DeBryn.’ Morse approached, licked his lips. ‘I’ve come for the autopsy report on Conrad Greel.’

‘Indeed.’ DeBryn retrieved it briskly and handed it over. ‘There you are.’

But instead of departing, Morse lingered. ‘They were twins, you know.’

‘Yes, I surmised as much.’

‘Oh yes.’ Morse ducked his head, tugging at his ear.

DeBryn allowed him a bare moment before picking up the nearest folder and saying, ‘Was there something else?’

‘No, not really.’ Morse took a step towards the door, then halted. ‘I’ve moved back to Oxford, though.’

‘So I see.’ DeBryn set the folder down on the bench and flipped it open.

‘I wanted to say...’ Morse cleared his throat. ‘I mean, back in January, I never really explained why–’

‘It’s fine.’ DeBryn flicked him a glance before returning his gaze to the piece of paper under his hands. He swallowed past the lump of unhappiness in his throat. ‘Consider it said.’

Morse frowned. ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ He was too disconsolate for this, for the back and forth of explanations or recriminations. At that moment DeBryn wanted nothing more than his solitude, to bury himself in work and try to forget there had ever been anything between them. He shuffled the papers pointedly. ‘Was there something else you wanted? Only I’ve rather a lot to be getting on with.’

‘No, that was it.’ Morse shifted his weight. ‘So, I’ll see you around, then.’

‘Mm.’

‘Perhaps a pint, some time?’

‘Perhaps.’

There wasn’t a chance in hell; DeBryn wasn’t made of stone, that he could sit across a table from Morse, forbidden to so much as touch his hand, and pretend to feel nothing. But at that moment acquiescence was the fastest way to be rid of him.

‘Goodbye, then.’

‘Goodbye.’

After the door swung shut, DeBryn pushed up his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose, his mouth trembling and his eyes prickling. Their time together must truly have meant little to Morse, that he could drop out of DeBryn’s life with only a note in farewell, and now to idly talk of meeting for an occasional drink, as though they were no more than casual friends. Whereas for DeBryn...

‘“Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over”,’ DeBryn murmured, pushing the folder away sadly to join its fellows, ‘“from death to life thou might’st him yet recover.”’


	2. Chapter 2

Fauré had always been a favourite composer. Not to everyone’s taste, of course, but DeBryn had discovered his _Requiem_ early on and been prompted to seek out his other works.

The running order for this evening was nothing new. The Pavane, some piano quartets – old favourites, all of them. What was rather newer, however, was the awareness of having company.

‘Well.’ Anthony stirred in his seat as the applause died away and DeBryn looked over at him.

The music had been absorbing, and he blinked away the ghost of red hair and blue eyes that instinct told him should be at his shoulder.

Anthony smiled at him, dark eyes crinkling at their corners. ‘Not bad.’ He glanced towards the door. ‘Anyone for a drink?’

On DeBryn’s other side Mrs Davies rose, picking up her handbag. ‘That would be lovely.’ 

‘Max?’

DeBryn stood, following them out of the main room, but at the doorway to the bar he hesitated, patting his pockets. ‘Actually I need to step out – left my cigarettes in the car.’

Anthony shook his head. ‘And here I thought a doctor would be full of warnings against the evils of smoking.’

‘Doctors are the worst, in my experience,’ DeBryn returned dryly.

Anthony grinned. ‘What will you have?’

‘Oh. I...’ At least there was one benefit to his bad habit; by the time he had stepped out for a cigarette and a breath of air, there usually wasn’t time for a drink as well.

‘Scotch, isn’t it?’ Anthony pressed. He shoved a hand into his pocket, jingling his change and waving away DeBryn’s fumbling with his wallet. ‘Let me get it. As recompense for the outing; the organiser shouldn’t have to pay for his own drink.’

‘Well then, yes. Scotch, please.’

Anthony nodded at DeBryn’s rather awkward acceptance and turned away, and DeBryn hurried to the main entrance, already digging out his car keys. It was raining but he wasn’t parked too far away, and it took scarcely a couple of minutes to dash to the car and retrieve his cigarettes. 

The outing seemed to be going well. Although ‘organising’ was a rather generous term for it; what had actually happened was that DeBryn had mentioned, at last week’s bridge evening, that he planned to attend the Fauré concert. It had been nothing more than polite small talk, but the interest shown by Anthony and Mrs Davies had rather obliged him to invite them.

The evening was cold for early April, one of those sudden temperature drops that caught one off guard, and reminded one that winter hadn’t been so very long ago, and DeBryn shivered. He tucked himself under the porch on the steps of the theatre, shook a cigarette out of the packet, and lit it, inhaling deeply.

As suspected, the bridge club had turned out to be one of his better ideas. It had been three weeks since that first evening, with him hiding in the kitchen and considering his escape, and his resolution had paid off. He and Anthony had become regular partners, and he even found himself beginning to anticipate the weekly sessions with something like pleasure.

Looking to the future, that was the key. It didn’t do to look back, to dwell on what had gone before and what he could no longer have, no matter what he might yearn for in the dark hours of the night, when the wolves came circling.

A knot of people spilled past him into the street, laughing and talking and unfurling umbrellas, and DeBryn drew aside to let them pass, stepping briefly out into the rain before regaining the shelter of the porch and drawing on his cigarette again.

‘DeBryn?’

One of the perils of being a more or less well-known face in Oxford’s medical community; doubtless a colleague who wanted ‘just a quick word’ that would turn out to be anything but, and DeBryn grimaced to himself and took a last draw on his half-finished cigarette, readying his excuses.

‘DeBryn.’ A hand touched his elbow and DeBryn turned and found Morse standing on the steps, smiling shyly. ‘I thought it was you. Hello.’

‘Morse.’ DeBryn’s stomach clenched, queasy with nerves. With Morse back in Oxford it had been only a matter of time before they ran into each other at one of these events, yet somehow DeBryn didn’t feel ready for it.

‘How are you enjoying the concert?’ Morse drew closer. His voice was slightly hoarse, perhaps from a touch of laryngitis or a cold, and DeBryn thought briefly of the fellow’s warm winter coat that had been handed back so peremptorily.

‘Well enough,’ DeBryn said. Morse was clean-shaven, the sharp black and white of his evening suit flattering his profile and making his blue eyes stand out all the more vividly. ‘And you?’

A faint smile pulled at Morse’s lips, softening his features and doing nothing to dim his attractiveness. ‘Very much.’

Silence fell and DeBryn set his jaw. He wasn’t going to be the one to break it.

‘I didn’t know you smoked.’ Morse’s eyes darted to the cigarette in DeBryn’s fingers, the curl of smoke hanging in the air between them. ‘I mean outside of...’

His words trailed off, shying away from even the glancing mention of the station.

DeBryn inhaled again. ‘I do. More than I used to.’

‘I see.’ Morse looked down. He was carrying a glass of Scotch, and DeBryn couldn’t help but watch the amber liquid shift in the tumbler as his long fingers cradled it.

‘I’m looking for new digs,’ Morse said, suddenly. ‘There’s a place just off the Cowley Road that might do. On Alderson Road – do you know it?’

DeBryn knew the area, but the road... ‘No.’

‘Peter offered to help me move.’ Morse caught DeBryn’s eye. ‘Jakes, I mean.’

‘Yes.’ DeBryn hadn’t actually known the chap’s Christian name, and he would have bet Morse didn’t either. It seemed he was wrong about that too.

Morse shrugged. ‘It won’t be much, but it’s enough.’

Unbidden DeBryn thought of his own spare room. The room he had dared to hope Morse might occupy, at least in name, once he had left the police and while he took stock of life. ‘I see.’

This was too painful. Each casual word, each inadvertent reminder of last year, of what they had once been to each other and no longer were, was like a knife in his heart. DeBryn dropped his cigarette stub, crushed it underfoot, and tugged his sleeve back to make a bit of a show of checking the time. ‘I’d better be going.’

DeBryn took a step back, and when Morse didn’t mirror him but drew unexpectedly close DeBryn’s heart thudded wildly.

‘I was wondering...’ Morse wouldn’t quite meet his eyes, looking instead at DeBryn’s mouth, his shoulders. ‘If you fancied going on somewhere else afterwards. For that pint we spoke about.’

This close the scent of his aftershave reached DeBryn’s nose, a pleasantly masculine scent that overlay his own natural scent, and that triggered a flood of recollection. Memories of desire, of pressing his mouth to Morse’s throat as he shook apart under Morse’s skilful touch, of turning his face into Morse’s hair as they lay tangled together in bed, passion temporarily spent. But also memories of affection. Even – on his side – of love.

For a moment temptation beckoned. It would be so easy to say yes, to accept what Morse was offering. One drink would surely lead to another, and then perhaps a nightcap at his house. Morse would tilt his head in that way he had and contrive to suggest taking things further, by a brush of fingers across DeBryn’s wrist, or a hand on his knee. And DeBryn could turn to him, acquiescing, and he wouldn’t have to spend the night alone, between cold sheets.

Yet in the morning, what then? Where did that leave DeBryn? In love with someone who clearly didn’t return his feelings; bad enough not to have what he wanted, but having only a little of it was enough to drive a man out of his senses with longing and heartache. And he had his pride, after all. He wasn’t a dog, to be dismissed and then called to heel again as Morse pleased.

DeBryn took a deep breath, welcoming the irritation of the thought, letting it wax until it drowned out the side of him that desperately wanted to accept, that was willing to crawl through the muck of any indignity for just one more night in the fellow’s arms.

‘No,’ DeBryn said weakly. The word lacked conviction, fell only half-audible into the empty air between them. He straightened his spine, firming his resolve. ‘No.’

Morse stepped back, raising his eyebrows slightly. ‘Oh?’

‘Can’t, I’m afraid.’ DeBryn shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away, at the silvery streams of water falling over the edge of the porch, before adding tartly: ‘And there’s no chance of a lift home afterwards either.’

Morse stood with his weight slightly on one hip. His good hip; perhaps the other still pained him in damp weather and DeBryn was struck with a memory of a particularly cold night last December. He had rested his palm over the bullet scar as they lay in bed, soothing the old injury as Morse drowsed, drifting but not so far asleep that DeBryn’s caress couldn’t raise a sleepy smile.

Pain lanced through DeBryn, and he swallowed hard.

‘But Oxford isn’t large, I’m sure your current digs can’t be more than a twenty-minute walk away,’ DeBryn added, summoning his irritation once more. ‘And if the rain doesn’t ease then there’s a bus stop down the street.’

He tilted his head, and watched Morse’s expression shutter.

‘Indeed.’ Morse stepped away, the warmth and intimacy vanishing like switching off a light. ‘Well then. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

‘Goodbye, Morse.’ DeBryn couldn’t bear it any longer, and with a last nod he turned away, leaving Morse standing in the doorway, his heart aching with each step as though he were walking away from a piece of himself.

In the bar DeBryn looked hopelessly around the throng of tall, dark-suited men, and startled slightly at a touch to his elbow.

‘Here.’ Anthony was at his side, holding out a glass, and DeBryn took it gratefully. ‘Craving satisfied?’

‘Yes.’ And a different one reawakened, save that of course he couldn’t say as much. DeBryn lifted the glass and sipped at his Scotch, welcoming the warmth of it as he swallowed, noting distantly that his hands appeared to be trembling.

He squeezed the glass tighter, and shoved his other hand in his pocket.

‘Are you alright?’ DeBryn lifted his eyes to find Anthony regarding him curiously. ‘I... it may not be my place to say, but you look a bit...’

DeBryn could only imagine. ‘Yes?’

‘As though you’ve seen a ghost.’ Anthony’s hand moved, as though he would touch DeBryn’s arm.

‘I’m fine.’ Perhaps if DeBryn spoke the words with sufficient conviction he could make them true. ‘Really.’ He took another drink, a gulp large enough to make his eyes water and his breath catch. Almost desperately he asked, ‘Has Mrs Davies gone back in?’

‘No, just to powder her nose. She’ll meet us back at our seats when you’re done.’

Anthony held no glass; he and Mrs Davies must have finished their drinks already. Morse had taken more time than DeBryn had realised.

‘There’s no hurry,’ Anthony said gently, as DeBryn quickly took another large gulp. ‘Really, take your time.’

And as Anthony began to talk of the book he was reading, DeBryn clutched his glass and gratefully let the flow of words wash over him. This was the right decision, both for himself and also for Morse. To have so little of what he truly wanted was torture, better not to have it at all. And Morse may have forgotten what their affair had cost him but DeBryn hadn’t. So it was the right choice, and DeBryn reminded himself of it with each beat of his sore heart.

He was poor company for the rest of the evening, although fortunately his companions didn’t seem to notice. Anthony talked enough for both of them, covering DeBryn’s silence with easy conversation, and Mrs Davies’ old-fashioned manners rendered her utterly inscrutable. It was only later, after dropping Mrs Davies at her home, that DeBryn pulled up outside Anthony’s house and Anthony looked at him.

‘Thanks for arranging this evening,’ he said.

DeBryn mustered a smile. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘Perhaps we could do it again?’

‘Yes.’ And it wasn’t entirely a polite social lie. At the start, during the first half, DeBryn had enjoyed himself. ‘I’d like that.’

Anthony gripped the door handle, hesitating, and at last spoke quietly. ‘It’s none of my business, of course, but are you sure you’re alright? You could come in for a drink, if you don’t fancy going home just yet.’

A drink was most certainly needed, but company was not.

‘I’m rather tired, I’m afraid.’ DeBryn hoped he sounded convincing. Yet he had the faintest flicker of regret at scorning Anthony’s hopeful expression. ‘Perhaps another time?’

‘Another time, then.’ Anthony gave him a last friendly nod before stepping out of the car, and DeBryn sighed wearily.

At home he poured himself a brandy before he even sat down or removed his jacket, standing there with car keys still cupped in one hand as he sipped at it. Damn Morse. And damn himself, his own foolish longing for someone who apparently had no more regard for him than a domestic animal, to be petted and caressed when it pleased Morse, and then pushed away the moment he became inconvenient.

Perhaps if DeBryn were a different sort of man – or Morse were other than himself – he could be content to be a casual on-again, off-again bedmate, however things being what they were it was impossible. To know Morse, to lie together with him skin to skin, was automatically to want more.

And for a while – for a few deliriously happy days – he had been sure he wasn’t alone in his wish. For a few days, when Morse had spoken of his future, it had been ‘we’, not ‘I’.

DeBryn firmed his lips as a fresh wave of sorrow broke over him at the memory. He had been wrong. Morse had changed his mind, and DeBryn did himself no favours by pining for the chap. He walked over to his bookcase, brushing his fingers gently over the spine of _Twelfth Night_. As though he were the first person to long for someone unattainable.

‘“Oh time, you must untangle this, not I”,’ he murmured. ‘“It is too hard a knot for me to untie”.’

He was in the kitchen, placing his empty glass in the sink and filling the cat’s water bowl, when a knock at the front door broke the silence, startling him. There was only one person it was likely to be, at this hour, and his stomach bunched with dread.

But hard on its heels followed annoyance. He was growing tired of being convenient, and he breathed deeply, letting his annoyance wax strong as he strode along the hall to wrench open the front door.

‘DeBryn.’

‘Morse.’

He stood on the step, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. His hair was ruffled and he had a familiar glint to his eyes; he looked entirely like his old self, and DeBryn wanted him desperately.

DeBryn took a deep breath. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to see what’s wrong with you.’

DeBryn stared at him idiotically. ‘Wrong with me?’

‘Yes.’ Morse at least had the grace to drop his gaze, one hand lifting to tug at his ear. ‘Earlier you seemed a touch... Are you ill?’

‘Oh yes.’ Irritation was so much easier than longing, and suddenly irritation was very easy to find. ‘I must be, mustn’t I. Because clearly I’ve no other possible reason for not wanting to take up with a fellow who expects me to come running at a snap of his fingers.’

Morse blinked, his brows lifting. ‘What do you–’

‘Two months, Morse. Without a phone call, without even so much as a note, other than that letter I found on my hall table... I assumed you wanted no more of this. Was that not what I was intended to think?’

A frown was gathering on Morse’s face, temper stirring. ‘I was in prison.’

‘I know.’ And each day of it had been its own sort of prison sentence for DeBryn, forced to stand to one side and powerless to act, or even to express his dismay. Obliged to carry on as though nothing was wrong.

‘For four weeks.’

‘Actually you were away for four weeks and three days–’ DeBryn cut himself off when the light went on above his neighbour’s porch.

The last thing they ought to do was have this row on the doorstep, and he gripped Morse’s forearm and dragged him inside, shutting the door behind him before continuing, rather more quietly: ‘I know. I counted.’

Morse’s face softened in surprise. ‘Did you?’

‘Of course.’ DeBryn pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and glared at Morse. ‘What else did you imagine I would do?’

‘I just needed a bit of time and space.’ The annoyance was back in Morse’s tone, the flush in his cheeks as clear as a warning flag. But DeBryn was in no mood to pay heed to it.

‘Do you have the slightest idea what it was like? Knowing that you were in there – the danger you were in – and that there was nothing I could do? Unable to visit, I couldn’t even write to you.’ Words poured out of him, words bottled up since he got home that evening to find Morse’s record player gone, and that cold note on his hall table that had utterly destroyed his world. ‘And then when you got out and all I wanted was–’

DeBryn bit his lip sharply. All he had wanted was Morse’s presence; he had missed the fellow so much it had felt like a physical illness. And here was Morse, talking about indulging his need for solitude, while DeBryn had been forced to get by with his own needs unmet.

‘But instead you take yourself off. And without even the decency to tell me to my face; instead I come home to find a wretched _letter_ on my hall table. Which reminds me.’

He turned on his heel, leaving Morse standing by the front door, and went to the cupboard under the stairs. He retrieved the brown paper bag, the forlorn little bundle of rejected gifts he had shoved in there on that first terrible evening, and marched back to Morse. He thrust the bag at him, shoving it against his chest, pettily pleased when Morse staggered back a step.

‘What’s this?’

DeBryn let go of the bag, and Morse fumbled to catch it before it fell. He opened the top to peer inside, and DeBryn had the satisfaction of seeing his face darken in a scowl.

‘They were gifts,’ DeBryn said coldly, enunciating as though talking to someone deaf, or incurably stupid. ‘Keep them, or drop them in the Cherwell on your way home, for I haven’t the slightest use for them.’

‘I needed a break.’ Morse stepped forward, roused for a fight. ‘Some time to clear my head; when I was investigating Blenheim Vale, I was distracted. By you... by what we were–’

He broke off, the flush in his cheeks deepening so that even the tips of his ears began to redden. DeBryn knew exactly what he was thinking of. He had felt it too, in those last few weeks before it had all gone so dreadfully wrong: the difficulty in concentrating, the tendency for his mind to stray to thoughts of Morse at the most inconvenient times. At his desk, out at a scene, he would be ambushed a dozen times a day by the memory of sleeping in his arms, or kissing the clean line of his jaw as Morse tilted his head back and moaned his pleasure while DeBryn stroked him.

If DeBryn wasn’t alone – or worse, if Morse was in the vicinity – he would have to turn away, busying his hands with a file or a piece of equipment or his glasses, occasionally bending down to retie a shoelace to explain away the flush in his cheeks, anything not to betray his thoughts and his own giddy happiness.

‘Yes. Well.’ DeBryn mustered every bit of courage. ‘Fortunately that will no longer be a problem for you.’

‘So that’s it then. You want to end...’ Morse waved a silent hand between them.

‘Actually it was your decision to end it.’ DeBryn folded his arms and glared. ‘And now that you no longer have it, you decide you want it back...’ DeBryn paused, thinking briefly, before licking his lips and articulating: ‘ _Varium et mutabile semper._ ’

He scored a hit, and watched with mean satisfaction as Morse’s cheeks flushed an angry red.

‘You don’t understand–’ Morse began.

‘On the contrary, I assure you; your note was very clear,’ DeBryn snapped. ‘I think we’ve demonstrated the folly of this. God knows how you still have your position in the police, but if you care to keep it then let this be.’

DeBryn sighed, his shoulders sagging as the fight drained out of him. ‘Find a nice girl and settle down with her. Or if you do choose to destroy your career, please don’t make me a party to it.’ Morse opened his mouth to retort but DeBryn wasn’t finished; the couplet rose to his lips from a half-forgotten corner of his mind, in a plea straight from his heavy heart: ‘“Sick I am to see you, will you never let me be? You may be good for something but you are not good for me”.’

Whatever rejoinder Morse had been about to make died on his lips and he stepped back, swallowing visibly, his face briefly slack with shock before settling into a hard impassivity.

‘I see.’ Morse bit the words out, his knuckles whitening around the paper bag. ‘Well then, if that’s how you feel, I’m sorry to have interrupted your evening.’

Without another word he turned on his heel, wrenched open the front door, and strode off down the path, and DeBryn watched him until the night swallowed up his dark-suited figure. He closed the front door and leaned against it, the glass cool against his hot face, allowing himself a moment of weakness as his hands trembled with the aftermath of adrenaline.

That was it, there was no going back from those words, and DeBryn closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. The pain of it felt newly fresh, wounds that had begun to close over torn open again. Time would mend all, or so they said; Tennyson famously declared that it was better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all.

DeBryn could only hope miserably that it would prove true, for at that moment he would have given anything in the world for his path never to have crossed that of Endeavour Morse.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Arcadia.

DeBryn’s dining room table had been purchased from a flea market. With four older brothers there hadn’t been much left for him to inherit from the various grandparents and aunts and uncles who had been so generous when Victor, Frank, and the twins had set up their households. The enormous beechwood table and chairs of his grandmother had gone to Frank, while Victor’s polished oak table had been supplied by an aunt looking to move to a small cottage after the death of their uncle.

DeBryn hadn’t minded. Had even been glad, in fact, that such fine pieces went to those planning to have children to pass them on to; such an option was out of the question for himself, and he was hardly the sort to give lavish dinner parties. He had only bought the current table because the room looked bare with nothing to fill it.

More than any other, even more than the bedroom, this was the room he most associated with Morse. The fellow had loved it, had preferred it to the living room: the view out over the back garden giving them a liberty for easy affection that had been impossible when sitting in the living room, overlooking the street. He had been wont to open the French windows, letting the sound and scent of the garden into the room. Letting in the cat, too, to sit just inside the room, its quiet presence adding to the homeliness of an idle afternoon in Morse’s company.

After Morse’s departure DeBryn hadn’t been able to bear using the room and he had closed the door on it, telling Mrs Jones he had shut it up for the winter, and that she wasn’t to bother with it on her weekly visits.

But now he fussed and fretted over it, pulling the dining room table away from the wall, and wiping it down. Mrs Jones had cleaned the room on her last visit but it still had a neglected look to it, a musty smell that spoke of disuse, and DeBryn flung open the French windows to air the room.

No time to do more, he was already late with supper preparations, and he scurried back through to the kitchen to set out provisions. Damn Perkins, for stopping him on his way out of the mortuary that evening, with ‘just a quick question’ that had taken a full half-hour to resolve. And damn himself, for not preparing this earlier, for hoping against hope that something would happen to get him out of it.

Thank goodness for Anthony’s quiet offer of assistance. Likely he had seen the flicker of panic in DeBryn’s eyes as he realised there was no escape, he had put it off as long as he could but he was going to have to take his turn hosting their bridge evening at his house.

In the days before he had hoped guiltily for something crop up. A change to the shift rota that would have him working. A last-minute summons to testify in London, requiring an overnight stay. Anything.

But all had stayed wretchedly quiet, and now DeBryn hastily pulled out lettuce and tomatoes from the fridge, and spared a grateful thought for the cold chicken and ham pie Mrs Jones had left in the larder.

The doorbell chimed as DeBryn unwrapped the packet of butter and set it in the butter dish, and he went to open it, finding Anthony on the doorstop with an easy smile and flourishing a bottle of Scotch.

‘Hullo,’ he said, stepping over the threshold and handing DeBryn the Scotch. ‘For you. In thanks for your hosting duties.’

‘My pleasure,’ DeBryn murmured automatically, taking the bottle and turning it to see the label. Oh. That was rather a good one.

‘Not for this evening,’ said Anthony, watching him. ‘Or... well. You could if you want, I suppose, but I’m not sure they would have the palate to appreciate it. They’re all gin drinkers.’

That was certainly true, and DeBryn thought hurriedly of the bottles in the door of his fridge. Surely that would be enough, they couldn’t possibly get through all that in one evening.

‘Perhaps you could come over one evening, then,’ DeBryn said, going to tuck the Scotch into the sideboard in the living room. ‘Help me drink it.’

Anthony smiled warmly. ‘I’d like that. Now then.’ Anthony hung his coat up, stripped off his jacket, and began to roll up his sleeves. ‘Set me to work. What can I do?’

‘Oh. Well...’

‘I promise you that your medical skills won’t be required, Scout’s honour. In fact I even dare to hope you’ll find me quite competent.’ It hardly seemed polite, to make a guest prepare his own supper, but Anthony had already walked down the hallway. ‘Kitchen this way, is it?’

DeBryn followed, and entered the kitchen to see Anthony approaching the cat, curled up in its box in the corner. He glanced at DeBryn.

‘I didn’t know you had a cat.’

‘More as a lodger than a pet,’ DeBryn said dryly, ‘but yes.’

‘My family always had cats when I was a lad,’ Anthony murmured, crouching by the box and holding out a hand for the cat to sniff before stroking its head.

The cat submitted to this with no outward sign of pleasure, and after a few moments it rose and stalked off, tail swishing disdainfully.

‘Oh.’ Anthony looked slightly crestfallen.

‘Don’t worry.’ DeBryn couldn’t help but smile. ‘I’m also very much second choice.’

Anthony rose to his feet, dusting his hands against his trousers. ‘Oh yes? So who’s first choice, then?’

The recollection was all the more painful for catching him off-guard: Morse in his kitchen, listening to the radio over breakfast, one hand straying to touch DeBryn’s wrist while the cat twined about his ankles and purred. DeBryn breathed deeply and tried to smile, to hide the grief stabbing through his chest.

‘No-one,’ he said, and had to turn away from Anthony’s curious look.

When contemplating the evening DeBryn had wondered how best to keep the cat out of the way; he had thought of shutting it into the kitchen, or the back garden. But as it turned out he needn’t have worried, for if Anthony’s arrival had been greeted with suspicion then the fact of him opening and shutting cupboard doors was a step too far, and the cat disappeared out the cat flap in disapproval.

DeBryn rather thought he would like to do the same, flustered at the thought of entertaining seven people in his little house, all at once. But Anthony poured him a gin and tonic that made his eyes water, and began to tell him about a lecture he had recently attended in London, and DeBryn began to relax as he sliced bread and listened to the faint Highland lilt in Anthony’s warm tenor.

They had rather a lot in common, the pair of them. And when Anthony dropped a pointed comment about being a confirmed bachelor, glancing sideways at DeBryn, DeBryn covered his surprise and merely nodded his understanding. The next instant he wondered at his own surprise. He of all people should know it wasn’t so easy to tell a man’s inclinations from his appearance.

By the time the others arrived DeBryn had begun to enjoy himself, and even the news that Mrs Davies had been detained only caused him a moment’s worry.

‘Thirty minutes late, apparently,’ Major Roberts said, his greying moustache bristling in tacit condemnation.

‘Oh.’ Presumably such tardiness would have been unforgiveable in the Army, but Anthony only said easily, ‘Never mind. Time enough for another drink before we start, eh Major?’

No-one seemed to mind the slightly cramped arrangements in the dining room. They barely seemed to notice, in fact, but DeBryn found himself thinking that he wouldn’t mind doing this again. And that perhaps he could even buy a proper bridge table; there ought to be enough space to fit it between the dining room table and the window.

He was halfway down his second gin and just starting to wonder whether he ought to suggest supper when the doorbell rang, and he sighed in relief. Not before time, for the Major had checked his watch twice in the past five minutes, and Anthony slipped out of the room.

But the next instant a familiar voice said, ‘Sorry, I’m looking for Max DeBryn?’

What in God’s name was Morse doing here? DeBryn hastily got to his feet, and made it to the hallway as Anthony said warmly, ‘I don’t suppose you play bridge, do you? We’re one short.’

Spending an evening next to Morse and making small talk sounded its own unique sort of hell, and as Morse began hesitantly, ‘I do, actually–’ DeBryn reached the door and swiftly cut him off.

‘Don’t worry, Morse, we’re fine. I wouldn’t want to take up your evening.’

A moment’s silence, the merest twitch of surprise on Anthony’s face at his rudeness, before Morse gave a forced smile at Anthony and added smoothly, ‘But I have other plans, I’m afraid.’ He rubbed his nape and met DeBryn’s eyes. ‘Do you have a moment?’

Before DeBryn could reply there was a faint meow, and they all looked down to find the cat trotting across the garden to Morse, its tail held inquisitively aloft. It leaned up against his legs and Morse bent down to stroke it briefly; DeBryn dared to glance at Anthony and found him watching the cat with an expression of veiled understanding.

‘Come through here.’ DeBryn held the door wide, ushering Morse into the living room with the cat at his heels.

The fellow looked almost informal, with a jumper under his jacket rather than his usual collar and tie, and a dirty smudge round the curve of his jaw towards his ear, where presumably he hadn’t noticed it to clean it off. And what looked like dust in his hair and settled into the fabric of his jacket.

In the living room Morse looked about himself, taking in the changes since the last time he had been there: the record player moved from its usual spot, some of the books reshelved into their correct order, a new plant by the window. Unbidden, DeBryn’s memory supplied an image of Morse in the armchair, stretching his legs out towards the fire and tilting his head towards DeBryn with a wicked slant to his eyebrows as he suggested an early night.

DeBryn shut the door, stepped back, and folded his arms. ‘What can I do for you?’

Since the concert they had achieved a sort of spiky courtesy around each other. Enough to pass muster at crime scenes, but it grieved DeBryn each time.

Instead of replying, Morse bent down to stroke the cat that had followed them into the living room, his eyes soft. ‘You kept him.’

‘Of course I kept it,’ DeBryn said, his words terse. He watched the cat lean against Morse’s ankles. ‘You encouraged it so much I find I’m stuck with it now.’

The memories of last summer, slowly falling in love, discovering Morse’s character by degrees, watching his affection for the cat, were like gripping a jagged blade in bare hands.

Longing sliced through his chest, and DeBryn breathed deeply and, unseen, curled his hands to dig his fingernails into his palms. It had been three months, he really should be able to hold a civil conversation with the chap that wasn’t over a corpse.

‘And I didn’t know you liked bridge,’ Morse went on, faintly reproachful. ‘You should have said; I would have partnered you if you’d wanted to join a group.’

It was miserable to receive such offers now, when it was all too late, and DeBryn ground out: ‘ _Morse._ Was there a point to this visit?’

‘Yes. Sorry.’ Morse ducked his head. ‘I need to... to tell you something.’

He was leaving Oxford after all. The thought arrived in DeBryn’s mind with sudden, unshakeable certainty, and he swallowed back a surge of desolation.

Morse rubbed at his nape, not meeting DeBryn’s eyes. ‘I... wanted to apologise.’

Why would he need to apologise for leaving? Officers did it all the time, it was the nature of the job. It wasn’t his fault he was leaving DeBryn’s world smaller and poorer.

‘Accepted.’

It would be best for him, in fact. A fresh start, a new station, without all the history hanging over him. Would he go to London, perhaps?

‘I wanted to tell you I see now that I was unkind. Back in January. When I got out.’

Oh. DeBryn blinked. He had long ago given up hope of ever getting an apology for that, yet it soothed an old ache.

‘I shouldn’t have gone off like that. After you’d been so kind. Done so much. I was upset but even so. If I was... distracted’ –Morse dropped his eyes, his cheeks pinking– ‘in December then it wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I spoiled things.’

This was more frankness than DeBryn had ever heard from Morse and he squinted at him. ‘Have you been drinking?’

‘No.’ Morse ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a wisp of dust. ‘Well, just one. It’s been a hell of a day.’

‘I see.’

DeBryn examined him. Morse had been scarce around the morgue over the past few weeks, and now that DeBryn saw him properly he looked rather uncared for.

Morse shrugged. ‘That’s all. I just wanted to apologise.’

Their last private conversation had been full of bitter words and recriminations, but it had been easy to keep his distance. Like this, with Morse weary and unkempt, DeBryn had to grit his teeth not to weaken and approach him.

‘What brought this on?’ DeBryn asked.

For a moment it didn’t seem Morse would answer; he looked over DeBryn’s shoulder and drew a deep breath, but eventually he said, ‘This case, I suppose. Thinking about regrets.’

Was DeBryn a regret, then?

‘I see,’ said DeBryn again although of course he didn’t, not really. ‘And that’s it?’

Morse looked at him. ‘What else would there be?’

‘You’re not...leaving?’

‘Leaving?’ Morse echoed. ‘Leaving Oxford?’

His tone implied his answer, and DeBryn looked away, guiltily relieved.

‘You’ve reminded me,’ he said, ‘that I still have something of yours.’

He crossed to the bookcase to take down the volume of Herrick he had found when searching for something to read.

‘I found it last week,’ he muttered, unable to meet Morse’s eyes, ‘and remembered that I had never quite got around to... anyway. Here.’

Morse took it, his fingers pale against the old leather. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

DeBryn smiled faintly in recollection. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘Then here.’ Morse held it out. ‘Keep it, if you like. A gift.’

Slowly De Bryn reached out to reclaim the small volume, and the brush of their fingers set his foolish heart to pounding in his chest.

‘And thank you,’ Morse said quietly.

‘For what?’

‘For the book.’ Morse ducked his head, faintly abashed. ‘And the gloves.’

A jolt of recollection: Morse’s Christmas gifts, that he had dropped into the bag containing Morse’s overcoat. He hadn’t known what else to do with them; keeping them for his own use had been out of the question.

‘You’re welcome.’ DeBryn swallowed. ‘Morse...’

The words died in his throat. There was so much he wanted to say to this version of Morse, who seemed calm and settled and more like his old self than DeBryn had seen at any point since he got out of Farnleigh.

But perhaps he didn’t need to say anything at all, for Morse took a step towards him. ‘DeBryn... Max...’

DeBryn squeezed the book tightly, watching the diffident slant to Morse’s shoulders as he approached.

‘I...’ Morse licked his lips, his hand half-reaching for DeBryn’s forearm. ‘I just wanted to say. That... well...’

DeBryn felt as though there wasn’t enough air in the room, almost light-headed at Morse’s proximity, the hopeful look on his face. It was so tempting to step forward, to meet him halfway.

‘DeBryn, are you– oh.’ The living room door opened and DeBryn skittered backwards, Morse turning away at the same instant and lifting a hand to scratch his nape as Major Roberts walked in and paused just inside the door.

‘Sorry to interrupt.’ He glanced between them and DeBryn raised his chin, trying not to look like a thief caught in the act. ‘But Mrs Davies has arrived and we’re ready to start, and Mrs Pearson was wondering if she might have a brandy.’

DeBryn bit his lip briefly before good manners – and sanity – reasserted themselves.

‘Yes of course.’ DeBryn crossed the room to pick up the brandy bottle from the sideboard. ‘Please do.’

The Major nodded his thanks and left, and DeBryn turned back to find Morse shifting his feet.

‘I should go.’ Morse smiled awkwardly. ‘Let you get back to your guests.’

‘Yes,’ said DeBryn, mechanically, when in his heart he would have liked nothing better than to shut the door on the lot of them and push Morse down into the armchair that DeBryn had come to think of as his. ‘Yes, thank you.’

He followed Morse to the door, the cat getting underfoot, and at the front door Morse paused, bending to stroke the cat again as he said abruptly, ‘You usually shop at Richardson’s.’

‘Usually,’ DeBryn said dryly. ‘Not tonight though – bridge players are a discerning crowd.’

‘You have thrown away anything you have from them, haven’t you.’

Of course he had, after seeing that makeshift workshop, but it was oddly touching to be the object of Morse’s concern. ‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ Morse straightened up, ignoring the cat’s mew of protest, and held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, then.’

DeBryn clasped it. Morse’s palm was rough against his own; it was the first skin to skin contact in, oh, far too long, and DeBryn never wanted to let go.

Instead he gave it a curt squeeze and dropped it, and Morse nodded to him before turning and loping off down the path. DeBryn, the cat at his feet, watched Morse until he had let himself out of the gate and walked down the street before he shut the door and leaned against the wall.

‘I know,’ DeBryn murmured, as the cat rubbed against his shins and mewed disconsolately. He bent to run a hand along the small spine. ‘Yes I know. I miss him too. But it’s better like this. Safer for him.’ The pain was suddenly sharp, as though newly separated all over again, and DeBryn tried to breathe through it, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. ‘It was only ever a fool’s hope.’

Somehow there was still supper and the rest of the evening to get through, despite DeBryn having rarely felt less like playing the jolly host, and he glanced at his watch. Perhaps one of them would have an early start the next morning, and the party would break up early. If it wasn’t such appalling ill manners he would do it himself.

‘Max?’

DeBryn looked up. Anthony was approaching, his head cocked. ‘No rush, but I wondered if all was well?’

‘Oh yes.’ DeBryn straightened up, and watched the cat make for the kitchen. ‘Just a...’

Whatever he and Morse had been to each other they had never been simply friends, yet DeBryn forced himself to smile and say carelessly, ‘An old friend.’

Perhaps his smile wasn’t quite up to standard, though, for Anthony drew close.

‘I’m sorry about the Major, just now. I didn’t know he was going to interrupt you or I’d have distracted him.’

‘It’s fine.’ DeBryn had to look away, making a bit of a fuss of removing his glasses and polishing them on his shirt sleeve. ‘No harm done.’

Which was perhaps not quite the whole truth, but it was as much of it as he bring himself to confess, even to such a sympathetic ear.

\----------

There were always a multitude of tasks to be done to keep the morgue tidy. The cleaners did their best, of course, but more often than not DeBryn himself had to roll up his sleeves and do what was needed.

Not that he minded. There was a meditative quality to be found in completion of a task that required only the hands while leaving the mind free to wander; occasionally he would get so lost in his thoughts as to be deaf to the outside world, and it was only when WPC Trewlove touched his arm that he grew conscious of her presence.

‘Oh.’ He halted, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming. ‘Constable Trewlove.’

‘Doctor DeBryn.’ She looked at the scrubbing brush and his rolled-up sleeves. ‘Are you still planning to do the–’

‘Mr Walker, at three o’clock, yes.’ DeBryn looked at the clock, reproving himself inwardly for time lost. ‘Be with you in just a moment.’

He cleaned up quickly, conscious of her gaze. Not much got past her: she had joined recently as a PC but DeBryn would be unsurprised to see her make the change to detective. Like Morse she listened and watched more than she spoke but, most _unlike_ Morse, she took a keen interest in the role of the pathologist at crime scenes.

He had noticed her watching him work, and when she had approached him to ask if she could attend a post-mortem he had been pleasantly surprised. A touch nervous, perhaps, for the first one, in case she fainted or felt ill, but he needn’t have worried, for it transpired she had a stronger stomach than her male colleagues. Morse may still be embarrassed about fainting but he was by no means the first; DeBryn had lost count of the number of tall strapping officers who had turned white as a sheet and had to excuse themselves from the room once he really got going.

‘Now then.’ DeBryn wheeled Mr Walker into position, flung back the sheet, and was gratified when she didn’t recoil but instead leaned forward. ‘What do you think?’

She glanced up at him. ‘Hanging?’

‘Yes. One of the more colourful ways to go.’ The face was bloated and discoloured, but she didn’t look away. ‘Can you guess what he used?’

He drew her gaze to the neck, and she frowned at the marks. ‘Something narrow? It looks like it’s cut into the skin a bit. Here, and here.’

‘Very good.’ She glanced at him, and he elaborated. ‘A length of clothesline.’ He turned to his tray of instruments. ‘But of course that doesn’t rule out other irregularities, so let’s have a look, shall we?’

It was a pleasure to have her company as he worked. She was quiet and unobtrusive, save for the occasional question. And it was an unexpected pleasure to have someone there, someone with whom he could share singular items of interest.

The process was straightforward and DeBryn finished in short order, and when Trewlove stayed behind to talk he discovered that she was chattier than he had given her credit for.

‘Jakes is leaving,’ she announced, leaning back against the bench and watching him scrub his hands.

‘Oh yes? Job getting too much?’

‘Getting married, actually. Moving to America.’ DeBryn actually stopped scrubbing and turned to stare at her. Trewlove smiled at his astonishment, and continued; ‘I think we were all just as surprised.’

‘Well now,’ was all DeBryn could find to say. Sergeant Jakes? In love? To the point of following the girl halfway around the world?

Trewlove shrugged, leaning back against the bench and folding her arms. ‘Love, I suppose.’

‘It makes fools of us all,’ DeBryn said.

She looked sharply at him. ‘Do you think it foolish?’

He himself had been seriously considering how to follow Morse abroad, though, and DeBryn resumed his scrubbing and smiled a small, sad smile down at his hands, thankful she couldn’t see. ‘No, not really. I daresay it will turn out to be the best decision he ever made.’

‘He nearly didn’t survive to make it, though. Did you hear about what happened at the old mine?’

DeBryn tilted his head at her, questioningly, and she needed little encouragement to continue.

‘I wasn’t there – I’d been sent off to search the other side of the woods – but I heard about it later...’

DeBryn listened to her story, drying his hands and clearing his tools away as she spoke, and when she said, ‘Morse only just got out ahead of him’ his head turned sharply and he interrupted: ‘Morse was there?’

‘Yes.’ She tilted her head at him. ‘Didn’t I say? Jakes and Morse were checking it together.’

‘I see.’ DeBryn moved about the morgue, setting the tools aside for cleaning and sterilising, his mind elsewhere entirely. Morse had looked rather dusty and unkempt when he came to visit DeBryn. Had he come straight from the incident, then?

‘But still, I imagine Jakes will be ready to go,’ Trewlove continued, oblivious to DeBryn’s train of thought. ‘Oh, which reminds me.’ She cocked her head at him. ‘He’s having leaving drinks on Friday. At the Lamb and Flag. Are you coming?’

DeBryn snorted gently. ‘And be the spectre at the feast?’ At her uncomprehending look he elaborated: ‘Pathologists aren’t known for being a jolly lot.’

‘Rubbish,’ she said firmly. ‘Come. I know he’ll want you there.’

DeBryn raised a sceptical eyebrow at her, wheeling Mr Walker away for storage.

‘He will,’ she insisted. ‘Honestly. He wants everyone there.’

Unseen, DeBryn smiled sadly to himself. Jakes’ young lady must be quite a character, if she could evoke this side of him.

‘We’re all going,’ Trewlove continued. ‘Thursday and Strange and even Bright.’

‘Not Morse?’ DeBryn asked, with as much casualness as he could feign.

‘Who knows?’ She shrugged. She may be new, but it clearly hadn’t taken her long to see how the land lay in that particular direction. ‘He’s been invited, I know that much.’

She looked at him and DeBryn returned her look silently. He could translate that well enough, knowing the likelihood of Morse going along to a group social event of his own free will.

‘Well alright then,’ DeBryn said. ‘I daresay I can come along to toast the happy couple.’

When Trewlove had left, DeBryn shook his head. No wonder Morse had been reflecting on life. Getting too caught in his own thoughts, no doubt, without someone to pull him out of them, and DeBryn shook his head at himself as he sat down at his desk to complete the report on Mr Walker.

‘“His folly has not fellow beneath the blue of day”,’ he muttered darkly to himself, ‘“that gives to man or woman his heart and soul away”.’

But that was hardly fair. If it was madness then it was one that most succumbed to, sooner or later, and just because he himself was settling more firmly into bachelorhood with each passing year he could hardly grudge a man finding a measure of happiness. He uncapped his pen and bent his head to his work. Housman, and his metaphysics, would have to wait for another day.


	4. Chapter 4

Like its crosswords, the problem with pub quizzes in Oxford – as opposed to other cities – was that they were written by classicists for classicists. DeBryn had acquitted himself well enough in Current Events, but when it came to History and General Knowledge then the quiz setter’s ideas of what constituted general knowledge were rather different to DeBryn’s.

They were all feeling the lack of Morse. DeBryn couldn’t recall whether Euripides or Sophocles had written _Antigone_ , and Strange remained convinced that Budapest was the capital of Armenia despite being shouted down, and at the break DeBryn murmured an excuse of needing a smoke and some air and stepped outside.

He wasn’t really a sociable type. He wouldn’t have come, save that Trewlove had been the one to stop by the mortuary to deliver the invitation and she had coaxed an acceptance out of him. She was the wrong gender entirely to inspire any warmer regard, of course, but she was personable and engaging and, had DeBryn’s tendencies been other than they were, she would doubtless have been able to wind him around her finger without any trouble.

The garden of the pub had a few benches scattered here and there. Some of the other clientele had also taken the opportunity to step outside but DeBryn wasn’t in the humour for idle chat, and he skirted them until he found a bench tucked half-under the trailing branches of a willow tree. He lit a cigarette and leaned back, exhaling a plume of smoke with a long sigh into the coolness of a late spring evening.

Trewlove may be unable to wind him around her finger, but that didn’t mean DeBryn was incapable of being wound.

Upon Morse’s return, back at the end of March, they had had a prickly sort of courtesy in their exchanges. When DeBryn had thought, not without justification, Morse was rude and in the wrong for his behaviour in ending their relationship, it had been easy to maintain his aloof reserve.

But after Morse’s sincere apology it had grown rather more difficult; despite his intentions DeBryn found himself looking for Morse at concerts, his heart giving a treacherous little flutter at the distant slam of the car door at crime scenes, indicating Thursday’s imminent presence with Morse on his heels.

‘Damn the fellow,’ DeBryn muttered, drawing deeply on his cigarette, the old ache starting anew deep in his chest. Broken hearts were nonsense, of course. A medical impossibility. And yet in quiet moments it did feel as though something had ruptured, just under his ribcage, and every idle thought of Morse – smiling under DeBryn’s touch, tracing his long fingers gently over DeBryn’s nose, his chin, closing his eyes in pleasure – set the old wound to aching anew.

A scuff of footsteps; DeBryn resigned himself to the interruption of his solitude but the approaching couple sat on the bench round the other side of the tree and he exhaled in silent relief.

There was a sigh; a familiar sigh, and DeBryn dared to lean forward and peer around the tree to see Trewlove and Strange.

‘Good quiz,’ Trewlove said, folding her arms. ‘Difficult, though.’

‘Yeah.’ Strange sounded despondent. ‘That’s the trouble with a pub quiz in bloody Oxford.’

Eavesdroppers rarely heard anything good about themselves. DeBryn was about to clear his throat, to step around the corner and make himself known, but the next instant Strange went on to say, ‘Shame we don’t have Morse here,’ and DeBryn froze. 

‘Wasn’t he asked?’ Trewlove wanted to know.

‘Of course he was,’ Strange said. ‘He didn’t say whether he’d come or not, but I thought he might. He likes a crossword; this sort of thing would be right up his street.’

DeBryn had to acknowledge the truth of that, as Trewlove asked, ‘Was he busy?’

‘No. He’s a bit antisocial, keeps to himself. When he first started, some of the lads thought, you know.’ Strange coughed. ‘That he was a bit of a queer fish. If you know what I mean.’

The word was like a dash of icy water to the face; DeBryn flinched but kept listening, his grip white-knuckled on the arm of his bench.

‘But he’s alright,’ Strange went on staunchly. ‘You just have to know how to take him, that’s all.’

‘Hmm.’ A rustle as Trewlove shifted her weight. ‘I heard he was in prison.’

The tail of ash hanging off the end of DeBryn’s forgotten cigarette was perilously long. A fine pair of police officers they were, unable to notice someone sitting just feet away even with the tell-tale scent of cigarette smoke to alert them, and DeBryn silently flicked the ash off and crushed the stub against the sole of his boot. At this point he wouldn’t have interrupted them for the world. His scruples were forgotten; hang whatever unpleasant gossip he heard about himself, it was suddenly imperative that he hear the rest of this conversation.

‘Yes he was. But’ –Strange had the air of someone admitting a reluctant truth– ‘it didn’t change him much. He always was a prickly bugger.’

Despite himself, despite his worry, the corner of DeBryn’s mouth pulled upwards. Strange had a pretty fair idea of Morse.

‘How did he end up in prison?’ Trewlove asked.

DeBryn’s heart sank. Really, it was surprising she didn’t already know. Coppers gossiped like old women.

‘Oh.’ To his credit, Strange sounded hesitant. ‘I can’t really say...’

‘Not even to a fellow copper?’

A long pause.

‘Rot,’ Strange said at last. ‘Out at County, and beyond. It went deep. And Morse and the old man... they got involved in it.’

This was hardly new information. Even if DeBryn himself hadn’t conducted the post-mortems and seen Standish’s guilt with his own eyes, Morse had been fairly leaping out of his skin in that week before his arrest, convinced that something wasn’t right.

DeBryn expected a reply from Trewlove: surprise, or a request for more information that Strange would baulk at. When she merely remained silent he saw what she was doing – the same trick he had used often enough on Morse – and shook his head in reluctant admiration.

‘The file was closed for fifty years,’ Strange said at last, into her expectant silence. ‘We were sworn to secrecy, all of us.’

‘I see.’ A pause, and then Trewlove changed tack. ‘Why Morse in particular, though?’

That was the crux of the matter, small wonder she had gone straight to it.

‘Morse. He’s... well, he’s a queer one.’

DeBryn closed his eyes in despair. At this point he couldn’t bear to sit and listen to Morse’s secret come out, save that he could hardly leave without attracting their attention.

‘He’s a clever bugger, but he doesn’t say the right things to the right people. He never has.’

‘The right people?’

Strange coughed slightly. ‘He annoyed some people in high places.’

‘At County?’

Strange seemed to have forgotten he wasn’t meant to be talking about this. Perhaps the twin effects of the pints he had been steadily putting away, and having an attractive woman hanging on his words.

‘No, it goes further than that. I mean... members of a certain ancient fraternity.’

There was silence. DeBryn frowned. What on earth was Strange getting at? His mind raced, but there was a sharply drawn breath as Trewlove got there before him.

‘Do you mean the Masons?’

‘Shh,’ Strange hissed. ‘Not so loud. But yes. There was a lodge got mixed up in a murder, last spring. There was some other nasty business in the summer, and then Blenheim Vale... And those blokes... all they wanted was for things to be settled quietly but Morse wouldn’t. And, well, they look after their own and they don’t take kindly to being crossed, is all I’m saying. Do you understand?’

‘I... think so,’ Trewlove said slowly.

DeBryn leaned back against the bench, glad he was sitting down.

‘I’ve told him. Advancement in the job isn’t just about brains,’ Strange said, with the air of one imparting worldly wisdom. ‘It’s about how you play the game.’

That was undeniable. And at least part of the reason DeBryn had never progressed beyond his role: a reluctance to attend the right sort of charitable evenings, and cosy up to the right sort of old boys. 

‘I see.’ Trewlove’s voice gave no indication of her feelings on this.

‘He needs to settle down, find a nice girl. That would help him.’ Strange hesitated. ‘For a while there, last summer, I thought he had. He seemed more settled.’ A snort from Strange. ‘I’d even say happy. Much as he ever is, anyway.’

Strange seemed to have forgotten Trewlove’s presence.

‘But I must have been wrong. Or if there was he didn’t say anything about her. He keeps that quiet about his personal life, you’d think he’d signed the Official Secrets Act.’

Strange coughed, coming back to himself. ‘How are you fixed in that department?’

As a matchmaker Strange was an unlikely candidate, and DeBryn listened to the dry amusement in Trewlove’s voice. ‘Oh, I’m married to my work, Sergeant.’

She added, ‘We should get back inside, or the second half will start without us,’ and Strange grunted his agreement.

‘I thought I saw the sawbones come out here,’ Strange added. ‘He’d better turn up before it starts again, there’s still the science round to do.’

‘I like him, he’s always very helpful.’

‘Really? Can’t say I’ve ever found him to be.’ Strange sounded doubtful. ‘Maybe he’s taken a shine to you. Although I’d always had him down as’ –Strange coughed diplomatically– ‘a bit of a confirmed bachelor.’

The clench in his stomach, the prickle of fear down his spine at the uncomfortable sensation of exposure, of discovery... they were all familiar as old friends by now.

‘Well, what if he is?’ Trewlove said stoutly, as they got up and moved away. ‘I’d rather deal with him than Kemp.’

Strange’s thoughts on Kemp were lost at this distance and DeBryn sighed, closing his eyes briefly.

DeBryn could hardly blame Strange, he didn’t exactly hide it well. Perhaps he should have found a sympathetic female friend to act as cover, save that such an arrangement seemed unfair to the lady in question. And having experienced real affection with Morse, it would be difficult to settle for anything less.

But that was a secondary consideration against the relief that Morse’ own inclinations had seemed to pass unnoticed and unremarked. A mercy, really: small importance if the fussy little pathologist – with his bowties and his Housman – was muttered about, but a police officer was a different matter.

And could it possibly be true? That Morse’s imprisonment had been due to the fellow’s truculence in the face of the Masons, his refusal to toe the line, and nothing at all to do with the eagerness and frequency with which he found his way to DeBryn’s bed, or the veiled looks he used to give DeBryn when he thought them unobserved?

It _was_ true, DeBryn was sure of it. Sure in a way he couldn’t entirely explain, in a way he would usually scoff at and dismiss as superstitious hunch. It certainly fit the known facts, facts that were otherwise inexplicable: Morse had neither handed in his papers nor been dismissed in disgrace, but instead welcomed back into his old role as though he had never been away. Strange and Jakes going out of their way to welcome him back – hell, Jakes had even helped the fellow move into his new digs, according to Morse – and almost fawning over him, for all the world like children who knew they were in the wrong and hoped to get away without repercussions. Even Thursday, not shunning the chap but fussing over him, in his own quiet way.

It all fit much better with wrongful imprisonment because of a stiff-necked refusal to collude in a corruption racket, than because his tendencies had been discovered.

And really: refusing to cooperate with the Masons, taking an almost contrary pleasure in ruffling their feathers... It was exactly the sort of thing Morse would do, and DeBryn pushed his glasses up to massage the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in frustration.

He tried to ignore the corollary but it was no use. Above all else he was a scientist, trained to draw conclusions from available data, and his brain was already leaping and bounding ahead to point out that all his grand notions in pushing Morse away for the sake of his career now appeared utterly senseless, since Morse’s career had never been in jeopardy in the first place.

Morse had always told him he worried too much over their relationship. That most policemen weren’t half as observant as DeBryn feared they were. Why hadn’t DeBryn listened? Why hadn’t he been able to relax and trust to Morse, rather than insisting that the fellow was being far too cavalier?

It made him sick. If he had known then he could have accepted Morse’s apology last month, so handsomely proffered, instead of holding back out of some deluded wish to protect Morse from himself. He could have invited the fellow round for dinner the following evening and perhaps, in time, they might have been able to recapture what they had. 

Longing speared through him, so sharp and sudden it stole his breath and set his throat to aching.

‘You fool, DeBryn,’ he muttered, heartsick and longing for Morse’s touch. He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest, against the phantom ache. ‘You utter fool, why didn’t you sit and talk it through with him?’

Re-entering the pub seemed unbearable: dealing with all the noise and fuss and inane chatter, pretending to enjoy himself when all he wanted was to go home, but leaving at this point was as good as an admission he had overheard the conversation.

If only there were some way he could feign a call-out. Morse, unscrupulous devil, would have done it for him without a second thought, he would have rung the pub with some spurious pretext and demanded, his most impatient tone, DeBryn’s immediate opinion on some minor case-related point.

At last, reluctantly, DeBryn left the sanctuary of his bench and made for the door. He should at least stay until the end of the quiz.

The fug of cigarette smoke and spilled beer was unpleasant after the cool peace of the evening air, and DeBryn made his way to where Trewlove queued at the bar, grateful to put off speaking to Strange for another few minutes.

‘Doctor.’ She smiled at him. ‘There you are. We wondered where you’d got to.’

‘Yes.’ Why hadn’t he thought of a story before coming back in? ‘I... er...’

‘What are you drinking?’ Thank goodness she didn’t seem to mind. ‘It’s my round.’

‘Gin and tonic, please. Large.’ All things considered, it was very much needed.

His reprieve was only temporary, though. After she had leaned forward to give her order to the barman, she turned back to him. ‘Are you alright? You look like you’ve lost a shilling and found sixpence.’

Her gaze travelled assessingly over his face, and DeBryn fought an urge to squirm guiltily. If not for her gender then surely she would have already been pushed gently towards studying for her detective’s exam.

This time she awaited his answer, and at last DeBryn muttered, ‘Just thinking about something a couple of weeks ago. On reflection, I’ve a feeling I may have made a wrong decision.’

‘I see.’ Her face shifted into something rather more compassionate, and she squeezed his forearm lightly. ‘Can it be mended?’

‘I...’ A wave of grief rose without warning, gripping his throat, and DeBryn bit his lip hard, steadying his voice. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Oh.’ Her gaze went briefly distant before she sighed. ‘Well, we all do it.’

She thought it was for a case, then. Much as it bothered him to have his professional knowledge called into question, it was infinitely preferable to the truth, and DeBryn made no move to correct her as she loaded his waiting hands with beer steins for their table.

‘You’ll know for next time, though, won’t you?’

‘Yes,’ was really the only possible answer, and he muttered it dutifully.

\----------

Later, at home in front of his empty hearth, DeBryn was at liberty to brood, a cup of tea going cold on the side-table by his armchair as he stared unseeingly at the silent record player.

_You’ll know for next time_ she had said. He shook his head. All the blithe optimism of the young, so confident that love could be had and used and discarded. That – like fresh bread – more would always be available tomorrow.

A tightness in his throat, and DeBryn pushed aside his untasted tea to fetch himself a brandy, returning to his armchair to shoo the cat out of the warm hollow left by his body.

‘As though it were that easy,’ he told it, relenting when it put a tentative paw on his thigh. He sleeked a hand along its back, encouraging it when it climbed boldly the rest of the way into his lap and curled up. ‘As though it were just a matter of picking up the pieces, like mending a broken plate.’

DeBryn stroked the silky cushion of the cat, soothed slightly at the rumbling purr that rose under his caresses. Morse’s pride would have been hurt. No man liked being rejected, after all, and DeBryn had always suspected, in his heart of hearts, that his first refusal to Morse would be his last.

And, more pragmatically, he may have taken DeBryn’s advice to heart and be courting a nice girl, and at this DeBryn had to close his eyes and gulp his brandy, letting the warmth chasing down to his stomach calm the searing edges of that thought.

Yet he had to know. Morse may be prideful as a cat, and DeBryn may be chasing nothing more than a fool’s hope, but if there was a chance, however slim, then he couldn’t turn away from it.

‘“And nobody calls you a dunce”,’ he murmured sadly, into the empty room, ‘“and people suppose me clever”.’

But he couldn’t bring himself to finish the couplet.


	5. Chapter 5

When it happened, DeBryn was caught off-guard.

Although to think of it like that was to presuppose there would have been a time when he would be prepared, would be ready to have the conversation with Morse, would be calm and collected and not tongue-tied and stumbling over his words.

It had been barely two weeks after the eventful pub quiz. The apple tree in DeBryn’s garden was in full blossom, the ducks he passed on his evening walk hatched their ducklings and took to the river, and the students punted up the Isis trailing bottles of white wine in the cold river water, but he saw none of it.

For two weeks, from the moment he woke until the moment he slept, he thought of little else but Morse: what DeBryn should say to him, how he could explain his own misunderstanding. What Morse might say in return. And yet for all his musings his mind was reduced to an utter blank when he finally came face to face with the chap.

It was an evening call-out to Beaufort College, to attend to a body in the undercrofts: a student, who everyone had thought had gone home to his parents some weeks ago. At first glance it was unclear whether it was suicide or murder, and given the age of the body it would have to wait for the post-mortem for it had been several weeks before he had been found, and then only by the workmen the college had called in, thinking the smell something to do with the drains.

It was a sad ending to what had likely been an unhappy few final hours, going from the expression of misery frozen into the young man’s features, and even DeBryn was relieved to get out of the enclosed space and back up into the fresh air of what, by now, had turned into a lovely evening, fragrant with the promise of summer.

The police presence in a corner of the quad had attracted the usual amount of interest, and as he waited for the coroner’s men DeBryn watched the students making their way back to their rooms, books tucked under their arms.

Lights were coming on in the rooms around the quad, and along the southern side of it the college chapel was aglow with light, the stained glass vibrant splashes of colour against the honey-pale stone. His fingers itched for a cigarette, partly for the welcome rush of nicotine and partly to remove the smell of death from his hands, but he refrained. It had been all very well for Jakes to wander around with a cigarette permanently dangling from his lip; the Home Office pathologist was expected to show a little more professionalism.

Trying to distract himself, DeBryn looked again at the chapel. There seemed rather more activity than expected for a simple evening service and he looked closer, at last spotting the board outside advertising a concert that evening. He squinted – ‘Mozart’s Requiem’ – and sighed. How very appropriate.

After so many concerts in Oxford, either accompanied by Morse, or in the knowledge he was likely to be there somewhere, it was second nature to look for him, and DeBryn’s stomach executed a nervous roll as a black-suited figure broke away from other similar figures to make its way over to the corner of the quad.

Trust Morse. There were other officers DeBryn could cite – some long since departed the force, but others still clinging on – who would walk straight past a crime scene when off-duty. But not Morse, and DeBryn watched him approach until his path was blocked by one of the constables guarding the scene, so new that his uniform buttons still gleamed.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

‘DC Morse,’ Morse said, already side-stepping the man.

‘Got any ID, sir?’

Morse stopped short, looking the fellow up and down, affronted. ‘Not on me, no.’

It didn’t look as though he could fit much in that suit, and DeBryn eyed the sleek lines of his jacket that tapered from shoulders to narrow waist and hips.

DeBryn stepped forward. ‘It’s alright, constable.’

The young officer seemed thankful to abdicate responsibility, in the face of Morse’s glare, and made no move to check Morse as he passed and approached the scene.

‘Doctor DeBryn.’

‘Morse.’

Morse looked past DeBryn, to the cobwebbed wooden door leading down into the vaults. It seemed not to have been opened in years; Lord knew how the lad had found his way down there but thankfully that wasn’t a job for DeBryn.

‘What’s going on?’

Morse had splashed on a touch of his usual aftershave before the concert, and DeBryn inhaled subtly as the breeze carried it to him. He had shaved too, for his jaw looked perfectly smooth as he tilted his head, bright eyes tracking the comings and goings, curious as a cat.

But DeBryn only shook his head. ‘Not one for you. Not this evening. Let McNutt’s team handle it.’

He wouldn’t dream of letting Morse down among the dust and cobwebs. Not on his evening off, not in his crisp white shirtfront, and most certainly not to a scene that stank of death, and had caused even DeBryn’s iron stomach to roil queasily by the end of his examination.

When Morse gave an indistinct, vaguely truculent, murmur and began to drift past him, DeBryn stepped neatly forward to block his path. ‘I mean it, Morse. If you go down there you’ll very soon wish you hadn’t.’

The move brought them into closer proximity, and Morse’s expression changed at the smell that clung to DeBryn and that, as previous experience had shown, wouldn’t fully vanish until he had showered and changed clothes.

‘Quite,’ DeBryn said tartly, watching Morse’s nose wrinkle as he recoiled. ‘He wasn’t found immediately, poor man.’

‘I see.’ Was it DeBryn’s imagination, or did Morse pale a little at that? He certainly looked away, swallowing queasily, and DeBryn sighed. Hardly the most auspicious beginning for the conversation he wanted to have. Needed to have.

‘Come over here.’ Not daring to touch Morse with his dusty, grubby hands, DeBryn tilted his head and Morse followed him a few steps away, taking care to keep his distance.

‘Are you attending or participating?’ DeBryn nodded towards the chapel, towards the world of beauty and music, trying to distract Morse from whatever horrors his mind was presenting him with.

‘Participating.’ Morse ducked his head, a little shy. ‘Tosca, you know.’

‘Yes, I remember.’ Remembered sitting in the audience, watching Morse’s face relaxed and happy with his joy in the music, caught between appreciation of the beautiful music and desire for the singer.

DeBryn coughed, gathering his thoughts in the face of the warmth flushing through him, and nerving himself up.

‘You’re well, then?’

‘Fine,’ Morse grunted, glancing over DeBryn’s shoulder before fixing him with that sharp blue gaze.

‘And the new digs... working out alright, I hope.’

Morse frowned slightly, and shrugged. ‘Well enough.’

He sounded thoroughly indifferent, and DeBryn shifted his feet. ‘Yes.’

Morse’s lack of interest made him falter, but DeBryn firmed his resolve. He couldn’t back out now. It was a perfect opportunity: not one of Morse’s cases so Morse’s attention was on DeBryn, rather than the victim, they had no-one else within earshot, and no Thursday or Strange hanging around and liable to interrupt them. Just Morse, with the evening sun touching the lighter streaks in his hair, and the severe black and white of his evening suit highlighting all the angles in his face, the lush sensuality of his mouth.

A mouth that pinched slightly, either in impatience or distaste at the scene he imagined underground, and DeBryn pushed his glasses higher on his nose, realising belatedly that his dirty fingers had likely just put a smudge on the tip of it.

Hang professionalism, perhaps a cigarette would calm his nerves and DeBryn fished out the packet and lit one, exhaling a plume of smoke and hoping belatedly it would mask some of the smell on his clothes.

‘I’ve not seen you... ah’ –DeBryn hesitated, before opting for– ‘outside of work. For a while. Not since the middle of April, I believe. When you, er. Popped by the house.’

Morse regarded him, eyebrows lowered forbiddingly. ‘Were you expecting to?’

He rather deserved that. After Morse had come to apologise so sweetly, so earnestly, and DeBryn had refused his unspoken offer of resuming their activities.

‘No.’ DeBryn couldn’t look at him. ‘No, not really.’

It was so very tempting to back out. A crisp ‘Morse’, and turn on his heel and pretend to be busy with something.

But if he forfeited this chance then heaven knew when there would be another, and DeBryn cleared his throat with a new appreciation for the courage needed – the courage Morse had needed – to lay oneself open to another.

‘You know that, given my role, I’m not privy to all information in ongoing investigations,’ DeBryn began.

Morse tilted his head. ‘I know.’

‘And that sometimes I. Well. Later information comes to light that causes one to see earlier evidence from a rather different perspective. And one realises that, in hindsight, and all things considered, and in light of the new information, one might have made the wrong decision.’

Now Morse was squinting at him, irritated. ‘Is there a problem with the Vyne report? I thought you had decided on suffocation.’

‘What? Oh, no, not that.’ DeBryn shook his head, frustrated. ‘It was suffocation, certainly; the fall took place after death.’ He absently lifted a hand to chew on his thumbnail – a nervous childhood habit long since grown out of – and only remembered the state of his hands just in time.

‘I meant that you. Well, not _you_ , but... one. One does the best one can with what one knows at the time.’

He was confusing the fellow, DeBryn could see it in Morse’s brows, the impatient fidget of his hands, and he cursed inwardly that Morse, so quick-witted, should choose now of all times to be obtuse.

‘Are you free for a drink, after your concert?’ DeBryn tried, a touch desperately. Perhaps Scotch would loosen his tongue, and would free something in Morse’s brain that would make him understand.

But Morse shook his head. ‘The choir are going for drinks.’

Silence fell between them. No invitation to join them, and DeBryn looked down at his cigarette, flicking the ash from the tip.

They wouldn’t stay undisturbed for long. In fact when DeBryn glanced past Morse’s shoulder, unable to meet his eyes, he saw a female figure detach herself from a group and begin to make her way around the quad to them, her long skirt swishing about her calves.

Morse, following DeBryn’s look, turned and saw her. He shifted. ‘I ought to go, they’ll be starting soon.’

DeBryn nodded. The moment had gone, there was no salvaging it, and yet, as Morse said, ‘If there’s nothing further–’ something prompted him to blurt, ‘Morse.’

Morse fell silent and waited, eyebrows raised enquiringly.

‘I’m not... not a _brave_ man, you know,’ DeBryn faltered. ‘I never have been. Not like you.’

‘Like me?’ For the first time in the conversation, Morse looked honestly puzzled. He cocked his head. ‘I’m not–’

Morse glanced over his shoulder: the woman was almost upon them and Morse stepped closer, his hand fluttering up as though to touch DeBryn’s elbow. ‘Max?’

DeBryn looked away, his throat constricting, leaving him mute. He shook his head.

‘Max.’ The lightest brush over his forearm, the tilt of Morse’s head as he tried to look into DeBryn’s face.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ Morse’s friend drew near, her face betraying her embarrassment, ‘but Morse, I’m afraid we need you.’

Half-hidden in the gathering dusk, Morse’s hand fell away from DeBryn’s arm. Unseen by the lady, but DeBryn felt its loss keenly.

‘Yes, of course. Just...’ Morse gave a last glance at the scene, the uniformed constables milling about.

‘I know.’ She smiled at him, her eyes dancing. ‘It’s full-time with you, isn’t it?’

DeBryn was disconcerted to see that, instead of bristling, Morse only ducked his head and smiled under the gentle teasing, his cheeks pinking.

‘Eleanor, this is Doctor DeBryn. DeBryn, this is Miss Holme.’

‘Oh, Eleanor, please.’

She stepped forward, smiling, her hand already outstretched, but DeBryn didn’t take it.

‘Best not,’ he said, holding up a grubby hand as proof, and she let her hand fall.

‘Of course.’ Eleanor glanced past his shoulder. Her dark hair was drawn back into some sort of complicated arrangement at her nape, and her silver earrings swung and glinted in the twilight. ‘Has someone been killed?’

DeBryn bit back the first retort that rose to his lips. His natural sarcasm wouldn’t be welcomed here, and instead he said, ‘That’s for the police to decide.’

He sounded frosty, and Morse flicked him an unreadable glance before turning to Eleanor. ‘Alright then.’ He nodded to DeBryn. ‘Evening.’

DeBryn returned the nod and exchanged a reserved goodbye with Morse’s lady friend, and watched them walk away, his heart sinking when Eleanor tucked her hand into the crook of Morse’s elbow and Morse slowed his pace to hers, smiling down at her.

Well, that had been a resounding failure. And yet what right had he to persist? If Morse had taken DeBryn’s advice and rebuilt his life, found a nice girl, what right did DeBryn have to now demand the return of his affections, after he had so firmly pushed the fellow away?

And DeBryn sighed to himself and turned away from the two figures, from Eleanor’s glossy dark head bent close to Morse’s fiery one, to greet the coroner’s men as they approached.

Later – much later, when the body had been safely transported to the morgue and the scene handed over to McNutt’s team – DeBryn stood in the kitchen, his hair damp from his shower, cooking a bit of fish for the cat’s supper while the cat twined lovingly around his ankles.

‘He looked happy,’ he told it, his heart contracting painfully. ‘He’s picked himself up, and he’s getting on with life. And really, any man is to be commended for doing so. Especially after what he’s been through.’

The cat planted both forefeet on DeBryn’s slippered foot, almost quivering with anticipation as DeBryn turned the gas off beneath the pan and moved the fish to a saucer to cool.

‘I don’t think you’ll be seeing him again,’ DeBryn said quietly. He swallowed hard, too upset to care that he was talking to the cat like an eccentric spinster. ‘But this is fine, isn’t it?’ He bent down to stroke the cat, and listened to its soft meow. ‘We get by alright, you and I.’

Perhaps, in time, he might meet someone else. Someone who had the power to render him breathless with desire, the intelligence to polish off the crossword in his lunch break, and an unexpectedly warm heart hidden beneath a reserved exterior.

‘We get by alright,’ DeBryn repeated, to the cat arching its spine into his hand, and wondered who he was trying to convince.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set just before Prey.

‘DeBryn!’

DeBryn turned to see Kemp striding along the corridor, his black coat flapping behind him like a bird of ill omen, and he sighed inwardly. The day had been going so well.

‘Kemp,’ he said resignedly. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘Are you going to tell me, then?’ Kemp glared at him. ‘Or do you expect me to guess?’

DeBryn frowned at him. ‘Tell you what?’

‘Your caseload, man – I’m meant to be covering it while you’re away.’

DeBryn blinked. ‘Away?’

‘Your holiday. Or have you cancelled it and not bothered to tell me?’

Comprehension dawned. Of course. The week’s leave he had booked back in December for April, dizzily happy at the thought of stealing Morse away for a week of leisure, of books and records, and lazy hours spent in bed. In April it had been unthinkable to take it, the pain of Morse’s abandonment still raw. And so DeBryn had commuted it to the second week of June, citing the demands of the Parker case, and thought no more about it.

‘Of course I’ve not cancelled it,’ DeBryn said, trying to sound dismissive, rather than shocked. How could it be nearly June already? Where had the weeks gone? ‘But there’s another ten days yet before I go, and there’s not much point giving you my case list so early, is there?’

Even Kemp couldn’t argue with the logic of that, and he merely said, ‘Are you going to tell me where you’re going, or is it a secret?’

‘Nothing of the sort.’ DeBryn lifted his chin, and spoke the first destination that came to mind. ‘Fly-fishing. On the Tay.’ He added, a touch maliciously, ‘I’ll leave you a number, should you need to reach me,’ safe in the knowledge that it would be a cold day in hell before Kemp admitted to needing assistance from anyone, least of all DeBryn.

DeBryn pulled out his pocket diary and consulted it. ‘And I had thought next Thursday afternoon for the case handover. Three o’clock?’

‘Fine.’ Kemp pencilled a note in his own diary, before snapping it shut and striding away with a brief nod of dismissal.

DeBryn escaped into his office, fuming silently. Even after all his years of experience, his work in the field, Kemp still addressed him like one of his students. It was enough to try the patience of a saint, and DeBryn was anything but saintly.

He sank into his desk chair, rubbing his face unhappily.

The past three weeks had been difficult ones. Thirty-three years in the world had acquainted DeBryn all too closely with his faults, but being acutely aware of his tendency to mope didn’t make him any less susceptible to it. More than once DeBryn lost track of time, sometimes while listening to a record and recalling how Morse had looked in the armchair opposite, enchanting DeBryn with each subtle shift of his features in response to the music. And often breakfasting at his kitchen table with only the tick of the clock for company, his toast forgotten in favour of memories of Morse smiling sleepily at him from rumpled sheets, the morning light softening the angles of his face, until DeBryn would come back to himself, annoyed, to find he had lost whole chunks of time in daydreaming.

He stared thoughtfully at his wall calendar. A week off with nothing much to do but sit at home and brood. Hardly appealing. Perhaps he should go to the Tay after all.

\----------

Lifting a peach tree sapling was strenuous exertion, even with the preliminary work Anthony had done in loosening the soil around its roots, and it was enough to drive all thoughts of the Tay – and of Morse – quite out of DeBryn’s mind. Until it was firmly planted in its new location, and DeBryn collapsed onto the garden bench, sweaty and aching, and watched Anthony turning the hose on the newly dug earth at its base.

‘Thanks very much, old man. I know it’s a hell of a way to spend your Saturday morning.’ Anthony glanced at him and grinned. ‘There’s a cold beer in the fridge if you’d like it.’

DeBryn could only imagine he looked a state – his bowtie had been discarded shortly after they began, and shirt sleeves rolled up – and he got to his feet to retrieve the promised beer, bringing a second for Anthony who had sat on the bench.

‘Cheers.’ Anthony touched the bottle lightly to DeBryn’s and drank, and DeBryn looked out over the garden.

It wasn’t what he had expected of the garden of a botanist. No manicured hedges here, nor immaculately pruned and mulched roses. It seemed ragged and half-wild, and yet when he looked closely there were delicate wallflowers carefully planted at the back of the border, and an exotic species in the corner whose leaves resembled an iris but whose flower was like no iris DeBryn had ever seen.

‘Thanks for the help.’ Anthony tugged at the collar of his old shirt as the breeze played on their hot faces. ‘You can transplant a sapling by yourself, if you have to, but it’s far easier with two.’

DeBryn hardly felt as though he had been much help, Anthony had seemed to know what he was doing, but he murmured, ‘A pleasure.’

Surprisingly, it was no polite social untruth. It had been pleasant to be working with his hands, out in the fresh air and with Anthony’s company, but Anthony’s tone held the hint of a laugh as he said, ‘Liar. But I’ve got us something nice for lunch, in recompense.’

DeBryn tipped his face up to the sun, closing his eyes and revelling in the breeze cooling the sweat at his temples, and didn’t open his eyes when Anthony said, ‘You seem to have caught the worst of it.’

Anthony had set him to tying in the branches, the less strenuous of the two jobs, but by the end they had both been shovelling in loose soil over the pale roots of the tree in its new placement. DeBryn glanced over at Anthony, his shirt collar open and his sleeves rolled up to bare his forearms, and smiled. ‘No more than yourself.’

Anthony shrugged. ‘I’m used to it – hazard of the job. Whereas you, doctor, in your sterile laboratory...’

DeBryn laughed. ‘Clearly you’ve no concept of what happens during a post-mortem.’

‘Mmm.’ Anthony stretched, leaning back against the bench and looking at DeBryn. ‘I cherish my ignorance on the subject.’

DeBryn was about to retort when Anthony’s gaze dropped from his eyes to his cheek and he added, ‘You realise you have a dirty mark on your face.’

‘I’m astonished it’s only one.’ DeBryn rubbed the back of his wrist along his jaw.

‘No, other side.’ Anthony sat up, shifted closer. ‘Here.’

DeBryn dropped his eyes, acutely aware of how close they were sitting, their knees almost touching. At this distance he could smell the warm cotton of Anthony’s shirt, the pleasant traces of his soap, and when Anthony touched his jaw DeBryn licked his dry lips, his heart abruptly beating harder.

‘There.’ Anthony’s voice was quiet, his thumb gentle as he rubbed DeBryn’s skin.

His hand lingered, and DeBryn lifted his gaze to meet Anthony’s eyes. At this distance they weren’t entirely brown, there were flecks of green in them, and DeBryn clutched his beer bottle and tried to find something to say.

‘Max,’ Anthony murmured, all the teasing light vanished from his face. ‘I was wondering... have been wondering for a while now, actually... whether I could...’

His thumb rested on DeBryn’s cheek before stroking down to his chin, just brushing the edge of his lower lip, and DeBryn – his heart racing, his mouth dry – leaned forward, lifting his face to Anthony’s.

The kiss that followed was at once easy, the natural extension of Anthony’s fingers on his jaw and his knee steady against DeBryn’s, and at the same time the most shocking thing he had ever experienced, and DeBryn closed his eyes as his head reeled. 

It was over in moments, just a warm pressure of lips and Anthony’s nose brushing against his own, but when Anthony drew back DeBryn opened his eyes with the distinct sensation that he was looking out on a new world.

‘There.’ Anthony’s thumb rested briefly at the corner of DeBryn’s mouth. ‘I wondered whether I might do that.’ His hand slackened, falling away. ‘Was I wrong?’

DeBryn reached up quickly to catch hold of it. ‘No.’

He couldn’t meet Anthony’s eyes, and he stared down at their joined hands as Anthony said, ‘You look so surprised.’ He sounded relieved, almost amused, and his thumb stroked DeBryn’s knuckles. ‘I can’t imagine why. Are you not in the habit of expecting kisses?’

‘I... no. Not lately.’ And DeBryn lifted his chin, tightening his hand around Anthony’s fingers and leaning in.

This time he kissed Anthony back with equal fervour, opening his mouth to brush his tongue over Anthony’s lips, his blood surging when Anthony inhaled sharply through his nose and bit lightly at DeBryn’s mouth, his tongue slick against DeBryn’s.

When Anthony pulled back DeBryn caught his breath, his face hot and his heart pounding.

‘This wasn’t actually what I intended.’ Anthony looked at him intently, his cheeks pink.  
‘I was going to be a gentleman, and simply tell you I’d like the chance to get to know you better.’ Anthony licked his lips. ‘In all things, not just for... that.’

DeBryn could hardly reply. After months of being numb with grief, his heart frozen with it, his body was melting under a surge of warm arousal, his blood racing and lust tightening his stomach.

‘You don’t have to answer now,’ Anthony said quietly, ‘but perhaps you could think on it.’

‘I think...’ DeBryn managed, breathless, ‘you could perhaps be less of a gentleman.’

The flare of interest in Anthony’s face sent his pulse leaping in anticipation. It had been so long since anyone had looked at him like that, since anyone had reached for him in desire. Not since... but DeBryn wrenched his mind forcibly away from that train of thought, for that way lay despair. Far better to concentrate on the immediate present, the delicious tension in his muscles, the warmth of Anthony’s hand as it settled on his nape.

The next kiss from Anthony was gentle but unhesitating. No shyness but no undue haste either, simply the slow thoroughness of a man taking as much pleasure in kissing as anything that might come next. In contrast DeBryn felt almost feverish with it; his hands trembling, his face flushing hot, and desire tightening his groin.

Anthony’s hand cradled his nape as they kissed, his fingers stroking lightly over DeBryn’s hair, and DeBryn opened his mouth and slid his tongue hungrily against Anthony’s. Belatedly he realised he was gripping Anthony’s arm tightly, and he consciously loosened his clasp as Anthony drew back slightly, smiling at him.

‘Can we...’ DeBryn faltered, licking his lips. He was hard, his body yearning towards the man pressed against him, shivery with lust. He put his arms around Anthony’s waist, stroking his back. ‘Could we...’

‘Mmm.’ Anthony lowered his head to kiss the side of DeBryn’s throat and DeBryn’s eyes closed involuntarily, tilting his neck up to the warm caress of lips, as Anthony laid a precise line of kisses up to his ear and murmured, ‘Go upstairs? Is that what you were going to ask?’

‘Yes,’ DeBryn whispered, giddy with anticipation.

Anthony caught his chin and pressed a lush kiss to the corner of his mouth. ‘Of course.’

There was no time to be nervous, no time to reflect on how long it had been since he had last been to bed with someone, nor who that someone had been. Anthony caught his hand and drew him to his feet and up the stairs, and DeBryn’s fingers stumbled more from desire than nerves as he unbuttoned Anthony’s shirt and pushed it off strong shoulders.

Anthony drew him down onto the bed, kissing him and stroking his hands along DeBryn’s waist and hips, almost gentling him. DeBryn was still wearing his shorts, and he put his arms around Anthony briefly before Anthony dipped his hand to stroke up DeBryn’s inner thigh.

‘Here,’ DeBryn muttered, and their hands bumped on the waistband of his underwear, dragging them halfway down his thighs before Anthony trailed his fingers over DeBryn’s erection and DeBryn faltered, gasping.

Beside him Anthony was just as aroused and DeBryn reciprocated, curling his fingers around the thickness and weight of his cock, experiencing the familiar tug of want low in his stomach at another man’s erection in his hand.

Anthony licked his palm and drew his hand firmly along DeBryn’s cock and DeBryn moaned, his eyes fluttering closed. He felt himself throb and grow harder, and Anthony kissed him again, pressing close, as he began to stroke DeBryn in a steady rhythm.

It was overwhelming: kisses, Anthony working his thigh between DeBryn’s, the tugging pressure of Anthony’s hand on his cock. Even the awkwardness of his shorts twisted around his thighs couldn’t calm his rising excitement, and DeBryn groaned, deep in his chest, as Anthony’s palm grew slick with his arousal.

Far too slick; if DeBryn didn’t want to embarrass himself then he ought to slow down, to focus some of his attention on his bed partner rather than his own pounding need, but when he squirmed, gripping Anthony’s forearm, Anthony only leaned into him and kissed DeBryn’s cheek.

The next instant he took his hand off DeBryn’s cock, dipping lower to cup his balls, stroking lightly, and DeBryn bit his lip under the wave of pleasure, before Anthony curled his fingers around DeBryn’s cock again to tease his thumb back and forth through the wetness at the tip. 

It made DeBryn cry out wordlessly, the excruciating pleasure of it dancing along his nerves and making him clutch at Anthony’s back, curling his fingers and turning his face away. Too late now to stop or slow down, and DeBryn knew a wash of deep embarrassment when the familiar tremors began in his thighs, his balls tightening and his stomach muscles hitching, and when Anthony began to pull at his cock in long, firm strokes, DeBryn moaned heavily and came into his hand.

Anthony made a shocked noise, but when DeBryn turned his face away, embarrassed beyond words despite the pleasure shuddering through him, Anthony leaned over and kissed his cheek, his mouth, until he opened his eyes.

‘Sorry,’ DeBryn muttered, his face burning, acutely aware of the mess on their stomachs and halfway up Anthony’s forearm.

A brief, delighted laugh from Anthony. ‘What on earth for?’

The warm kiss that followed went a long way to soothing DeBryn’s embarrassment, and he wriggled out of his shorts and pressed Anthony back into the pillows, lying on top of him and kissing him while Anthony gripped DeBryn’s thighs, his hips, and held him close, dragging his erection across DeBryn’s stomach and groaning softly.

The scent of him was intoxicating, all fresh air and clean sweat and male musk, and DeBryn broke away from their kisses to seek it out, nosing along Anthony’s throat and pressing his face to his chest, with its scattering of hair, making his way down until he was kissing Anthony’s hipbone and acutely aware of the flushed length of his cock next to his mouth.

Perhaps here he could redeem himself from his earlier adolescent haste, and when he mouthed at the base Anthony’s hand touched his cheek.

‘Only if you want to,’ Anthony murmured, despite the excited twitch of his cock in DeBryn’s hand, under his mouth.

DeBryn smiled to himself. A sarcastic comment about ‘perfect gentlemen’ was ready on his lips but it was actually rather endearing, such manners at such a moment, and he only murmured a wordless reply as he drew Anthony’s cock into his mouth. He could taste himself, the sharp flavour of his own release, but he slid his mouth along Anthony’s length, letting Anthony press deeper between his lips, over his tongue. DeBryn let him slide slowly free and glanced up the bed, noting the hectic flush in Anthony’s face, the hand fisted in the pillow under his head, and lowered his head, closing his eyes and settling to it.

It was its own sort of pleasure to do this for a man, to feel his responses in the twitch of his hips, the restless shift of his thighs, and to taste the salt-bitterness of his arousal. DeBryn was prepared for Anthony to get off like this, had curled a hand around the base of his cock and started to suck firmly at him, lavishing attention on the head, paying attention to what made Anthony arch under his touch, what drew soft noises from him.

After several minutes Anthony was gasping for breath, fine tremors running through his thighs, and DeBryn swallowed and closed his eyes, ready for his finish. But a moment later Anthony was sitting up, his hand on DeBryn’s cheek guiding him away and coaxing him to lean up for a kiss.

‘Can you go again?’

It wasn’t until Anthony reached down between his legs to rub the backs of his fingers along DeBryn’s cock that DeBryn realised he was firming again. Embarrassing, to be so obviously starved for physical affection that he was ready again so quickly, but Anthony was pulling him up the bed and pressing him to lie back on the pillows before – oh God – sliding down the bed.

DeBryn was still only half-hard and sensitive after his orgasm, shivery with it, and the first warm touch of Anthony’s mouth had him gasping, groaning through his teeth, unsure whether to push him away or beg him to continue. But Anthony was gentle, coaxing, and DeBryn closed his eyes dizzily, feeling himself thickening and firming in slow increments against Anthony’s tongue, moaning as Anthony drew back to lick firmly along the underside and linger over the tip.

‘God,’ Anthony said roughly, pulling back, and DeBryn opened his eyes and reached for him as Anthony crawled up the bed to lie full length on him, pressing their erections together.

‘Yes,’ DeBryn muttered nonsensically, stroking Anthony’s hips, the backs of his thighs, before gripping his arse as Anthony began to thrust against him. Slick from saliva and their arousal, the slow grind against him had DeBryn moaning wordlessly against Anthony’s shoulder, and when Anthony kissed him hard and muttered, ‘Your hands, Max, _please _,’ DeBryn needed no more than that to reach down and gather them both into his fist.__

__A few minutes of that, of Anthony groaning into his throat, the steady curl and flex of his hips pushing his cock through DeBryn’s wet fist, against DeBryn’s own erection, and DeBryn flung his arm around Anthony’s waist and held him tightly as Anthony gasped raggedly, his hips stuttering and his hand tightening in the pillow under DeBryn’s head._ _

__The warm slickness streaking over DeBryn’s stomach, his cock, made his toes curl with pleasure, and when Anthony had finished DeBryn let his cock slide out of his slippery grasp and began to pull at himself. It was difficult, the second time in so short a span, and DeBryn chased his pleasure almost desperately, his knuckles rubbing against Anthony’s firm stomach as Anthony braced himself up and kissed DeBryn, letting DeBryn suck on his tongue and grip his shoulders and rub his cock against the smooth hollow of his hip, DeBryn tugging at himself until the sensations peaked and he cried out, wordlessly, his second orgasm skirting the line between pleasure and pain._ _

__It left him panting for breath, his muscles trembling from exertion, and for several moments DeBryn lay with his eyes closed and breathed, letting himself simply inhabit his body as he never otherwise did: the sweat at his temples and under his arms, his heart slowing from its frantic pace, and all the endorphins surging through his bloodstream. When he came back to himself he turned instinctively to the warm body next to him, the gentle hands stroking his chest and touching his face, and opened his eyes._ _

__He hadn’t forgotten who he was in bed with, of course. And yet there was something profoundly wrong, something jarring, about opening his eyes and seeing dark hair rather than red, and the hands skating over his ribs broad and tanned when his sense-memory insisted they should be long and pale. He swallowed, still dazed from his second orgasm, and tried not to feel wrong-footed, as though he had stumbled over a missing stair in the dark._ _

__‘Well now.’ Anthony braced an elbow on the pillows to prop his head up on one hand. He smiled down at DeBryn and DeBryn tried to respond. ‘I think it’s safe to say that conversation went better than I could possibly have hoped.’_ _

__‘Yes.’ DeBryn looked away. He ought to be awash in post-coital bliss, lying in the wreck of bedsheets with an attractive man smiling at him. But with his brain no longer lust-stupid he felt all the wrongness of lying here with this man and not another, and he swallowed past his sudden sharp grief._ _

__Anthony rested a hand on DeBryn’s chest, pressing slightly, and DeBryn responded to the unspoken request and raised his eyes to meet Anthony’s gaze._ _

__‘I’m not sure what your plans are after lunch. But if you wanted to stay for the afternoon then I daresay I might be able to stretch to dinner too.’_ _

__The conspiratorial smile that accompanied this only served to make guilt twist sharply in DeBryn’s chest. ‘Oh. That’s kind of you but I...’ He swallowed, his mind working frantically. ‘I’m afraid I can’t. I have to’ –he seized on the first excuse that came to mind– ‘to feed the cat.’_ _

__‘I see.’_ _

__The mess on his groin and thighs was drying cold and itchy, and before DeBryn could find an excuse to wriggle out of bed and dress Anthony spoke again, all the teasing gone from his voice to leave him serious: ‘Max.’_ _

__DeBryn tried to look composed as Anthony continued, ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, will you, but I have the feeling that there was someone else for you. Someone who left you a bit down about them.’_ _

__Bad enough that he had suddenly lost his enthusiasm for this, but unforgiveable to be careless enough for his partner to notice, and DeBryn looked away in shame. The truth was impossible to admit, but the man wasn’t blind._ _

__Anthony leaned in and DeBryn lifted his chin, readying himself to feign a keenness he no longer felt, but Anthony merely brushed a gentle kiss over his mouth. ‘Let me cheer you up a bit. That’s all.’_ _

__It seemed a very one-sided bargain, but when DeBryn opened his mouth to say so Anthony kissed the corner of his lips, silencing him, and said, ‘Don’t answer now. Take a week to think about it.’ A quirk of a smile. ‘You’ve not yet crossed the... damn it. The river. The Roman one.’_ _

__‘The Rubicon.’ Despite himself DeBryn smiled, faintly amused, at the chagrin on Anthony’s face._ _

__‘You think I’m an illiterate oaf, I know you do. But yes, that’s the one.’ Anthony looked pleased when DeBryn reached for him, stroking a palm across his collarbone and shoulders. ‘Tell me next weekend. Are you free on Saturday?’_ _

__‘Yes, I–’ DeBryn cut himself off, remembering. ‘Actually, I can’t. I’ll be going away on holiday. Leaving early Saturday morning.’_ _

__The recollection of the holiday – and the circumstances surrounding it – settled on his shoulders like a weight, dimming the lift of his spirits at Anthony’s easy acceptance._ _

__‘A holiday? Where to?’_ _

__DeBryn tried to smile. ‘A week’s fishing on the Tay.’_ _

__Anthony’s face softened. ‘Ah, God’s country.’ He gave DeBryn a narrow look. ‘Excuse me for saying, but you don’t exactly look thrilled about it. Do you not want to go?’_ _

__‘No, I do.’ DeBryn looked away. ‘There’s just rather a lot going on at work, and it’s not an ideal time to be going away.’_ _

__A poor lie, but thankfully Anthony didn’t press him, only saying, ‘Well, take it away on holiday with you. Mull things over, and tell me when you get back. Alright?’_ _

__‘Alright.’_ _

__‘And ring me if you need a lift to the station on Saturday morning.’_ _

__What had he done to deserve such generosity of spirit? This uncomplicated attraction was more than he had ever had before, more than he had imagined existed, and it prompted him to lean up and press his lips to Anthony’s in an awkward but heartfelt kiss._ _

__When DeBryn drew back, Anthony was watching him with a soft expression. ‘Well then.’_ _

__After a moment’s pause, he squeezed DeBryn’s shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s shower, and then I bought us some salmon for lunch. I thought it looked rather nice, although I’m not sure it’s going to stand up under the assessment of an expert fisherman such as yourself.’_ _

__And DeBryn smiled under the gentle ragging, and allowed himself to be pulled out of bed and nudged towards the bathroom. Perhaps, just occasionally, life could be blessedly uncomplicated._ _


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Prey.

Summer in the north was an entirely different season to the south. Oxford had been baking in muggy heat for weeks now, long enough that DeBryn had almost ceased to notice the discomfort, but this far north it was cool and fresh, albeit with enough sun that he acquired a nice sunburn on his nose on his first day out on the river.

The cottage had been booked in haste. The same one he had taken two years ago, that had happily been free for this year. Trepidation had gnawed at him the entire journey up and he had been relieved to find that his memory had been faithful: the cottage furnishings were simple, even sparse, but adequate for a bachelor who spent the majority of each day out on the river.

The fishing was good at that time of year, although not so good as to prevent him slipping into his usual meditative state when out on the river, with the water chuckling over the brown pebbles on the riverbed, and the breeze stirring the leaves overhead.

The Victorians had used lachrymatoria to mark the time needed between the end of one relationship and the prospect of another; romantic as the notion was, it was likely apocryphal, although one could believe it all too easily of the Victorians. The concept was not without merit, but it worked poorly for those who gave no outward sign of their grief; who shed few tears but who limped along with a broken heart for months.

Even now, the memory of Morse in his bed, of quiet moments spent in each other’s arms, still had the power to catch in his throat, his lungs squeezing and his breath coming short, no matter how many times he repeated to himself that it was over and done. That Morse had found happiness elsewhere, of a rather more socially acceptable sort than DeBryn could offer, and that if DeBryn had any measure of sense he would do the same.

And really, he could hardly ask for better. Anthony was a warm, kind-hearted man; any fellow would be lucky to have such a partner. If DeBryn was waiting for another man who would inspire the same degree of passion he had known with Morse then he would be waiting a long time; he may not be experienced in matters of the heart but he knew enough to be aware that such burning infatuations came once in a lifetime, if they came at all.

With Anthony there was attraction, yes. No affection, at least not yet. But the fellow was kind and patient and good-humoured; there was no reason to suppose affection wouldn’t come eventually, in time, and by the end of the week DeBryn’s mind was made up.

\----------

After the wild and lonely beauty of the Highlands, the train journey on his last morning served as a return to reality: rising in the pre-dawn light to catch the first Edinburgh train, yawning as it rolled through the moors, purple with heather. The smoky rush of Edinburgh station, and then the long slow glide of the train to Oxford.

‘I always like going south,’ DeBryn murmured to himself, eyes fixed on the silver shimmer of a distant lake as the train sped along, ‘it feels like going downhill.’

Faye had never read _The Lord of the Rings_. But from her remembered enjoyment of _The Hobbit_ she would surely have liked it and DeBryn smiled to himself, a touch sadly, as he looked out of the train window at the scenery changing from the sparse beauty of the north to the lush greenery of the south.

He earned several annoyed looks as he waited for the bus at Oxford train station, bumping fellow passengers with his luggage and fishing kit, and descended in the centre of town with a certain amount of jostling and a distinct sense of relief. The next bus out towards his house should be less crowded. Although – he eyed the queue already at the stop – it was severely tempting to walk, given the fuss and bother of trying to cram himself and his belongings into a seat.

A car pulled up, beeping its horn. Some lucky soul who had a lift from a friend, and DeBryn began to walk past it until it beeped again and he looked. The unfamiliar shape suddenly resolved itself into the Jag, and under DeBryn’s surprised gaze the passenger window swung open.

Slowly, DeBryn approached, his thoughts racing. There was a case on, then. And a complicated one too, if Thursday couldn't tolerate Kemp for one more day before DeBryn’s official return to work tomorrow. The man was adequate, but rather ready to accept the first explanation that presented itself. It was easy to imagine how that must have gone down with Morse, and DeBryn was briefly sorry he had missed it, before he leaned down to look through the open window.

Morse’s impatient look met his enquiring one.

‘I don’t remember ordering a taxi,’ DeBryn said, raising his eyebrows.

‘Get in, you’re needed,’ Morse said, brusque, but he hopped out quickly enough to lend a hand as DeBryn lugged his suitcase and fishing kit to the boot.

Back in the car Morse pulled away from the kerb and DeBryn flung out a hand to brace himself against the dashboard as Morse took a sharp left at the end of the road.

Taking the quickest route to Cowley General, and DeBryn said, ‘I take it all has not been uneventful in my absence, then?’

Morse grunted.

DeBryn removed his hat, running a hand over his forehead. The knitted cardigan that had been necessary for a five o’clock start in Scotland was suddenly too much for Oxford in high summer.

‘Would you care to enlighten me as to what is so urgent I’m not even permitted my last afternoon of holiday?’

‘No.’ Morse didn’t look away from the road, and came to a halt at some traffic lights. He drummed his fingers on the wheel and glanced at DeBryn, who had narrowed his eyes at the curt reply. ‘That is, I don’t want to bias you. You’ll see soon enough.’

As soon as the light turned green they were off, with rather rougher acceleration than the Jag deserved, and DeBryn subsided into his seat and watched Morse’s profile. Something had him agitated, even more so than Morse usually was in the throes of a case, and DeBryn fished out his cigarettes and lit one, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaling slowly. Whatever this was, it didn’t bode well.

Out of the corner of his eye, DeBryn caught the movement as Morse glanced over at him again.

‘I didn’t know you’d holiday planned,’ Morse offered, in one of his awkward bursts of politeness.

DeBryn slanted him a look and, instead of reminding Morse just who the original instigator of that holiday had been, merely asked, ‘Any particular reason you should?’

Except that was disingenuous: there was a time when Morse had known very nearly every secret of DeBryn’s heart, and mere holiday plans would certainly have been discussed.

‘No.’ Morse’s jaw tightened and a dull flush climbed up his throat. Whether at the implied rebuke, or at the memory of how close they had once been, DeBryn was unsure. ‘Good, was it? Kemp said you went to the Tay.’

Oh he had, had he?

‘Very pleasant.’ DeBryn considered, blowing a stream of smoke out of the window, and added: ‘June sunshine, fresh air, salmon fishing, and a stack of books.’

‘Yes.’

Unusual that it didn’t even raise a smile from Morse. Whatever the case was it must be distracting indeed, and DeBryn watched him lapse into silence during the rest of the drive.

He looked out of the window, at Oxford streets and colleges. Such a change from the Tay, yet it was where his heart was, he couldn’t deny it.

‘DeBryn...’ Morse began, sounding hesitant enough that DeBryn turned to look at him. ‘Max. The last time we... when I saw you at Beaufort College. Back at the start of May.’ He slowed as he took the turning into the road for the hospital. ‘Was there something you wanted to say?’

DeBryn opened his mouth, hesitated for a long moment, but finally shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

Morse slowed, approaching the hospital entrance. ‘Really? I thought we might have been interrupted before you had a chance to finish what you were telling me.’

The car slowed as Morse turned in at the entrance and deftly piloted through to the staff car park.

‘No. At least, it’s... no longer relevant.’

That at least was the truth. Or as good as: given DeBryn’s new resolution to take up with Anthony and leave Morse to pursue happiness with his lady friend, then DeBryn’s regret at the ending of their dalliance hardly mattered now.

Morse pulled into a free space and parked; DeBryn reached for the door handle but paused when Morse merely sat there. He looked at DeBryn and, freed of the distraction of driving, his gaze was serious. DeBryn swallowed unobtrusively as Morse’s blue eyes tracked carefully over his face.

‘You said you weren’t a brave man,’ Morse said quietly. His fingers ran along the lower edge of the steering wheel, fidgeted with a loose thread in the stitching.

‘Possibly.’ DeBryn looked down, rubbing at an imaginary smudge on his cardigan, and lied, ‘I don’t recall.’

‘No.’

When DeBryn looked up, Morse was staring out of the front windscreen.

‘I’m not either,’ Morse said suddenly. ‘Not really, not in the way people mean when they talk about bravery.’

DeBryn stayed silent. He hardly knew what to say, and something about Morse’s voice told him Morse wasn’t finished.

‘But I think it a greater failing to be short-sighted.’

DeBryn blinked, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘By which you mean...’

Morse gave an impatient noise. ‘I don’t always see what’s in front of me. I wait for the right moment and then one morning I wake up and realise it passed me by unnoticed.’

‘It’s hardly an uncommon failing,’ DeBryn said, when Morse fell silent. ‘You’re not the first to wish he could go back for another go at things.’

What would he do differently with Morse, given half a chance? But DeBryn shut the door firmly on those half-formed thoughts and cleared his throat. ‘So then. Are you going to tell me what’s got you so bothered you can’t even wait another day for my professional opinion?’

He watched with interest as Morse’s mouth twisted, the ghost of nausea flickering across his face, before Morse said merely, ‘You’d better come and see this.’

\----------

At least in the chill of the morgue the woollen cardigan was more suitable attire, and DeBryn made his examination while Morse hunched his shoulders in his jacket and thin summer shirt.

‘This was no boat propeller,’ he confirmed, and Thursday nodded grimly. And DeBryn’s irritation spilled over, because the edges of the amputated limb had a distinctly chewed look, nothing like the clean shear of a boat propeller. ‘And it wasn’t Lizzie Borden!’

Kemp’s glare all but burned into the side of DeBryn’s face as DeBryn looked at Thursday. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d have to say these injuries accord with the bite of a large mammal of the order carnivora. Most likely of family felidae, genus panthera.’

It was impossible. And yet the evidence of his own eyes told him that the arm had been bitten off, by something with jaws large and powerful enough to shut like a steel trap.

‘A big cat?’ Kemp scoffed. ‘For the love of God.’

‘I'm not saying that's what it is, that's what it looks like.’ DeBryn gritted his teeth, hanging on to his professional tone with grim determination. ‘There's a difference.’

‘I’ll have no part of this,’ Kemp declared, turning on his heel. ‘You always were a fool, DeBryn.’

After Kemp’s abrupt departure DeBryn stared down at the limb, not daring to look at Thursday or Morse, while his heart thumped.

Kemp had been practising for years by the time DeBryn arrived, the new upstart with more modern training and ways of thought. And hidebound Kemp may be but he wasn’t stupid nor entirely unobservant; ‘fool’ was by no mean the worst he could have flung in DeBryn’s face at that moment, for DeBryn had no doubt Kemp knew all about him and his proclivities.

‘Doctor.’

DeBryn looked up, jolted out of his thoughts by Thursday’s voice.

‘Up for a field trip?’

\----------

The cat was overjoyed to see DeBryn when he stepped through his front door that evening, twining around his ankles and nearly tripping him up as he set down his luggage, and even went so far as to permit DeBryn to pick it up.

‘Hullo there.’ DeBryn tickled its chin, absurdly pleased at the rumbling purr this provoked. ‘It’s nice to know I’ve been missed. Has Mrs Elliott been looking after you sufficiently?’

He set aside the tin of shortbread he had bought to thank her and made himself a cup of tea before, forbidding himself further procrastination, he steeled himself and picked up the telephone.

‘Hullo?’

‘Hello,’ DeBryn said, nerves constricting his throat. ‘It’s DeBryn here. Doctor Max DeBryn.’

He could have kicked himself at such an awkward greeting, but Anthony’s voice was warm. ‘Max, hello. Back from your holiday? How was it?’

‘Lovely. Fine weather, lovely scenery, just... lovely.’ DeBryn twisted the telephone cord between his fingers and gripped it tightly, cursing his own inarticulacy. ‘Look, I wondered whether you might be free for a drink this weekend?’

‘Of course. What time?’

‘Saturday evening, say eight o’clock? At the White Horse?’

‘I look forward to it.’ Anthony sounded as though he was smiling, and DeBryn blew out a silent breath as the butterflies in his stomach eased. ‘I’ll see you then. And you can tell me all your fisherman’s tales about fifty-pound salmon that swallowed the hook and made off with it.’

DeBryn huffed a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t joke about them unless you’re truly prepared to have them inflicted on you.’

‘Oh, I’m counting on it.’

After they said their goodbyes and hung up, DeBryn stroked the cat where it stood on the hall table, butting its head insistently against his stomach. Why had he chosen the pub? In hindsight there could be few worse places for that sort of conversation – one chap proposing a homosexual relationship to another – and DeBryn shook his head at his own idiocy.

‘Too late now to change it, though,’ he told the cat, as it leaned into his hand. ‘Not unless I want him to take me for an utterly indecisive fool.’

But the cat merely closed its eyes and purred loudly as he smoothed a thumb over its head, and it was some comfort to know there was one being who required only a fish and a warm hearth to think him the cleverest man alive.

\----------

After the glories of the Scottish countryside, a field trip in Wytham Woods was infinitely preferable to attacking the pile of paperwork that had built up in his absence, yet for the police it didn’t achieve overmuch beyond confirming what DeBryn had already stated.

There could be no further doubt that a large cat was involved, the claw marks on Doctor Lorenz’s body were unmistakable and DeBryn, so accustomed to violent death, had an unexpected cold shudder of dread.

It took barely a few minutes to confirm the cause of death to Thursday and, after he nodded grimly and moved off, DeBryn drifted over to Morse, standing with his back resolutely turned to the mangled body.

‘You heard, I take it,’ DeBryn said, and Morse nodded tightly. His face was bloodless, his mouth pinched, and DeBryn swallowed hard. But the words wouldn’t be suppressed and he muttered, ‘For God’s sake, Morse, be careful with this one.’

Morse looked down at him in surprise.

‘No, there’s nothing more I can give you,’ DeBryn said, answering the silent question in Morse’s face. ‘Nothing beyond what I already told Thursday. But’ –he shivered, despite the heat of the day and his woollen cardigan– ‘I don’t like this one bit, Morse. For the love of God, mind how you go.’

The memory stayed with him even after the post-mortem, and he mulled it over that evening as he prepared dinner for himself and listened to the Archers, the cat a warm cushion on his lap. It had followed him around since his return home that evening, clearly not trusting in his continued presence, and even tried to follow him upstairs when he went to bed.

For once DeBryn relented and allowed it to leap onto the bed, curling itself in the hollow of his knees and purring.

‘I met a cousin of yours today,’ DeBryn murmured to it, watching the small paws knead the blankets contentedly, the sharp claws appearing and disappearing. ‘Or rather I failed to meet him. Thankfully.’

He shivered, suddenly. The sheets were cool, but more than that he couldn’t forget those gouges in the man’s flesh, the animal’s rage at its confinement almost soaked into the ground along with all the blood. No mistake, he would be glad to see the back of this case.

\----------

Upon arrival at Crevecoeur Hall, following the summons by a flustered duty sergeant, DeBryn had barely lifted his case out of the boot before Strange was at his elbow. ‘Doctor.’

It was unusual to be greeted by Strange. Perhaps Morse was detained elsewhere, and DeBryn was briefly thankful Morse was well out of whatever trouble had gone on here.

‘Sergeant. What do we have?’

During the call DeBryn had asked only enough to ascertain the corpus wasn’t one of OCP, and now Strange led him across to the entrance to the maze. ‘You were right, Doc. It was a tiger.’

‘I see. And do we know where it is now?’

‘In the maze.’

DeBryn took an involuntary step back. ‘I take pride in my work, Sergeant, but if you think I’m going in there with a live tiger–’

‘Dead, I mean. It’s dead. Mr Bright shot it.’

‘Did he now?’ Despite himself DeBryn was impressed. ‘Very well. Lead on.’

The victim was slumped at the end of a long corridor of hedges. The tiger had clearly had enough space to gather momentum before it leapt, and DeBryn examined the snapped neck and the deep gashes across the chest with a chill running down his spine.

‘You hardly need me to confirm cause of death,’ DeBryn said, looking up at Strange, who had fallen uncharacteristically silent. ‘But yes, it was certainly the tiger that did this. At least it was mercifully swift.’

DeBryn got to his feet, and looked down at the man. ‘After the tiger hit him, it would have been all over in a matter of seconds.’

Strange nodded, white-faced, but when he turned to leave DeBryn halted him. ‘If this is the only victim, then I would like to see it. The tiger.’

‘Alright then.’ Strange tilted his head. ‘This way.’

He led the way along several twists and turns, until he halted at the end of a passage.

‘Just down there,’ Strange said, and took a step back. ‘I’d best get back to the rest outside.’

‘You’re not coming?’

Strange shook his head, looking nervous. ‘No thanks. Seen it once already, and that was enough.’

DeBryn stared at him: Strange had always seemed so determinedly unflappable.

‘It _is_ dead, isn’t it?’ DeBryn asked slowly.

‘Yes,’ Strange said at once. ‘Yes, no doubt of that. But it’s just... well, you’ll see.’

He turned to go, but DeBryn spoke. ‘Sergeant. How am I to get back to without you?’

Strange looked surprised. ‘Just follow this.’ He touched a length of red wool running along the hedge at shoulder height, pausing every few yards to wrap around a twig. DeBryn blinked. He had been too distracted by thoughts of the animal to notice it.

‘Very well then.’ He nodded to Strange. ‘Carry on.’

Alone, DeBryn walked to the end of the passage and it opened up into a small clearing. There were benches, and possibly even some sort of ornamental statues, but he couldn’t have described them later because his attention was immediately fixed on the enormous Bengal tiger stretched out on the ground.

DeBryn advanced cautiously. It was clearly dead – a clean shot through the heart, it looked like – and yet it was still a fearsome thing. He looked down at its face, eyes half-closed, its lips still drawn back to show a trace of a snarl and revealing large white teeth. DeBryn stooped, touching his fingertip lightly to the point of a claw protruding from a heavy paw, testing its sharpness.

The animal was stretched to its full length, shot in the very act of leaping upon something. Or someone; DeBryn shivered under the summer sun, and the words rose to his lips almost involuntarily: ‘“And when the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears”.’

A rustle in the hedge behind him, and DeBryn startled backwards, away from the predator lying on the ground in front of him, his heart leaping up into his throat. The next instant a blackbird flew away, shrilling its alarm call, and DeBryn sighed, his legs shaky with relief.

‘Foolish,’ he chided himself, refusing to let himself sit down on one of those benches that suddenly looked terribly inviting to his unsteady knees.

Best get back, and with a last look at the extraordinary creature DeBryn followed the red wool back to the entrance, trying not to think of blood trails left by wounded things.

Outside he found Strange, and told him, ‘Good idea of yours. The wool.’

‘Oh, that was Morse,’ Strange said. ‘Did it himself.’

‘Yes.’ DeBryn looked at him sharply, seeing anew the oddity of a sergeant doing what was, frankly, a DC’s job. ‘Where is Morse, by the way?’

Strange nodded towards the parked cars, the Jaguar sleek alongside the other police vehicles. ‘Over there. Having a sit down.’

Worry clawed at DeBryn’s heart, and he strove to keep his voice neutral. ‘The call said there were no injured.’

Sharpness bled through, and Strange was already shaking his head before DeBryn had finished speaking. ‘No, nothing like that, he’s fine. He just... needed a minute to pull himself together.’

Strange would have to choose now, of all times, to exercise what little tact he possessed, and DeBryn stared at him for a few seconds before stamping off towards the Jaguar, his medical bag clutched to him like a shield.

As he drew closer he could see that the car he had at first taken to be empty had a pair of feet resting on the ground on the far side of it. He circled around to the passenger side and found Morse sitting there, his feet on the ground, elbows on his knees, and his hands buried in his hair.

‘Morse?’

Slowly, Morse lifted his head to look at DeBryn, and DeBryn bit back a noise at the sight of him. Morse was white to the lips, his freckles standing out sharply against a chalky pallor that had DeBryn immediately crouching in front of him and reaching to take his pulse.

‘Tell me,’ DeBryn ordered tersely, tucking two fingers under Morse’s jaw and glancing at his watch, realising too late that taking the radial pulse would have been more appropriate and less intimate.

‘You were right,’ Morse said quietly, submitting to DeBryn’s examination. Despite the warmth of the sun, his skin was cold, clammy. ‘There was a tiger.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ DeBryn said impatiently. He hadn’t finished his count but already he could tell Morse’s pulse was far too fast, and thready with it. ‘But we suspected as much already, it can’t have been this much of a shock to you.’

‘Mr Bright shot it,’ Morse told him, and DeBryn removed his hand from Morse’s slim throat to catch hold of his chin and peer into his eyes, noting the excessive pupil dilation.

‘I know.’ DeBryn gentled his voice this time. Something had frightened Morse badly, and DeBryn had a sinking sensation that he knew what. ‘Were you there when he shot it?’

‘It was jumping.’ Morse’s eyes were stark, staring, and he looked past DeBryn at something only he could see. ‘And then it wasn’t. But I thought, I really thought it was going to–’

He broke off, a convulsive shudder running through him, and DeBryn pursed his lips in dismay as the pieces fell into place.

‘Whatever possessed you to chase a live tiger into a maze, Morse.’ A scolding was the last thing he needed, but the normalcy of it seemed to bring him back to himself slightly. He blinked at DeBryn.

‘Lady Julia and her baby. They had gone in. And I... I had to find them. Before it–’

‘Alright,’ DeBryn said swiftly, as Morse’s throat worked. ‘Yes, alright then.’

Curse the woman: what sort of fool wandered alone and unarmed – and with a child, too – with a tiger roaming the place?

Morse heaved a shaky sigh and DeBryn caught the foulness of his breath – the sickly sour edge of vomit – but refused to flinch or turn his face away. The smell of it reminded him of what he had seen in the clearing: he had been distracted by the tiger at the time, but his memory now offered a recollection of a pool of vomit in the corner of the clearing. The corner towards which the tiger had been leaping; the splattered pool had been mere feet away from the beast’s outstretched paws, in fact, and DeBryn opened his medical bag to rummage through it.

‘That was both an extremely brave, and an extremely foolish thing to do,’ DeBryn said quietly, his hand closing about the familiar waxed paper bundle and drawing it out. ‘Thank goodness for Mr Bright.’

‘I couldn’t just leave them in there.’ Morse’s fingers twitched, curling around each other. ‘If it had found them, it would have–’

He broke off, pressing his knuckles to his mouth, and DeBryn said briskly, ‘Well, it’s over now. _Morse_.’ He gripped Morse’s knee and gave it a little shake, trying to draw him back to the here and now, to make that terrible wide-eyed gaze focus on him. ‘Are you listening to me? It’s done now, you’re safe. Here.’

He pressed the packet into Morse’s hands, thankful for the interruption that had curtailed his lunch, and folded Morse’s lax fingers around it.

Morse looked at it incuriously, making no move to open it. ‘What’s this?’

‘A remedy.’ DeBryn fished in his medical bag again. ‘What did you eat for lunch?’

Morse’s silence spoke volumes, and DeBryn grunted. ‘I thought as much. They’re biscuits: your blood sugar must be monstrously low.’

It was a wonder he had had anything in his stomach to bring up, but DeBryn kept that remark to himself. The last thing Morse needed was another wave of nausea.

Reaction seemed to be setting in now, with Morse’s hands shaking badly enough he couldn’t get into the packet of biscuits and DeBryn took it off him, with visions of the contents spilling all over the ground.

‘Here.’ He opened the packet and handed one to Morse, who received it with muttered thanks and regarded it with a marked lack of enthusiasm that had DeBryn adding sternly: ‘You’ll feel better for it.’

As Morse began to nibble the edge, DeBryn handed him the bottle from his medical bag. ‘And drink this.’

Morse shied away slightly and DeBryn said dryly, ‘It’s drinking water, Morse. Even I get thirsty when out in the field.’

He unscrewed the lid, and watched the lip of the bottle chatter briefly against Morse’s teeth as he tilted it and drank.

A white lie, that. The supply of water was actually kept for rinsing his hands when his gloves failed to provide sufficient protection on his messier jobs. But no need to tell the chap that, for the bottle itself was clean and freshly refilled that morning, and DeBryn watched Morse at first sip and then start to gulp greedily, as though surprised to find he was thirsty.

He coughed a little when he finished it and lowered the empty bottle, gasping. Morse blinked, seeming to see DeBryn properly for the first time since DeBryn had crouched down in front of him.

‘Max.’ Morse glanced down at the half-finished biscuit in his left hand, the empty glass bottle in his right, before dropping the bottle to the ground and lurching forwards, grabbing clumsily at DeBryn’s sleeve. ‘ _Max_.’

‘Alright Morse.’ DeBryn stayed put, despite his knees aching in the uncomfortable crouch, and let Morse’s fingers fold tightly around his forearm. The grip was almost bruising, as though he were the only thing keeping Morse from sliding over the edge of an abyss, but DeBryn firmed his muscles, trying to communicate reassurance and stability. ‘You’re alright, it’s over now.’

‘No, you don’t understand.’ Morse stared into his face, shivering. ‘I thought I was going to... and on the way in I should have been thinking about how to get them away but all I could think was that I’d never... I never–’

The scuff of footsteps approaching was followed by Thursday’s voice. ‘Doctor DeBryn?’

‘Here,’ DeBryn called, and Morse’s hand dropped swiftly from his forearm as Morse fell silent. DeBryn’s knees cracked audibly as he rose to his feet and turned to face Thursday.

‘The coroner’s men are looking for you,’ Thursday said, until he rounded the corner of the Jag and saw Morse. ‘Ah.’

‘He needs to go home,’ DeBryn said crisply, as Thursday’s gaze flickered between DeBryn and Morse, sitting with the empty bottle on the grass between his feet, gripping his half-eaten biscuit. ‘He’s in shock, he should have been sent home before this.’

‘I’ll have one of the lads drive him,’ Thursday began, before changing his mind. ‘Or actually I’ll take him myself.’

Morse stirred. ‘There’s no need.’

Apparently being discussed as though he were a parcel to be shunted around had restorative effects; Morse lifted his head and DeBryn was pleased at the pink in his cheeks.

‘Doctor’s orders, Morse. You’re of no use here,’ DeBryn retorted, before turning back to Thursday. ‘He needs food. And tea. No alcohol,’ he added, not moderating his voice despite Morse’s looming presence behind him.

This sort of experience could drive a man to the bottom of a whisky bottle, making himself puking drunk in a bid to forget it. And it would work, for a time, but sooner or later the mind would demand its due, and it would be no easier for having been sodden drunk every night for a week.

‘I’m fine.’ This time Morse’s voice held something like his usual tone, his usual intolerance for what he felt to be unnecessary fuss.

DeBryn didn’t look at him as Thursday nodded. ‘I’ll see to it he gets home.’

‘Good.’

DeBryn paused only to retrieve his empty water bottle and his medical bags before walking away, giving a last glance behind himself to Thursday gruffly chivvying Morse into the car.

It was all very well to make resolutions, when away on holiday, of seeking companionship elsewhere and ignoring his lingering feelings for Morse until they died a natural death. But Morse himself did make it terribly difficult when he flung himself into such thoughtlessly brave acts that showed his essential decency, the reserves of compassion he kept hidden beneath his impatience and intellectual snobbery.

\----------

Back at Cowley General, the post-mortem on Mr Craven was swiftly done. It had hardly been necessary, it had been obvious what had done for him, but procedure had to be followed. Afterwards DeBryn sat at his desk, switching the lamp on against falling dusk, and tried valiantly to make some headway on the paperwork that had built up in his absence but it was no use, he found himself unable to concentrate, and at last he capped his pen and sat back in his chair with a sigh.

It could all have turned out so differently. If Morse hadn’t found the woman and her child. If Bright had been just half a minute later at the scene, or if his aim had been just slightly off the mark, DeBryn would be living in a scene that had featured regularly in his nightmares back in January: seeing Morse’s features white and cold, his easy grace stilled.

DeBryn’s wasn’t a profession that rewarded musings on the road not taken, and usually he had no trouble avoiding it. But it had been awfully close, this time.

At last DeBryn pushed back his chair and stood, decisively. If he was going to be wretchedly unproductive he may as well do it in the comfort of his own home, perhaps with some Wagner in the background, and he gathered the paperwork into an untidy bundle and stuffed it in his bag.

The drive home was lovely; even as distracted as he was, DeBryn couldn’t miss Oxford looking its best in the honeyed light of a summer evening, and he was so absorbed in making plans to get out in his garden at the weekend that he only noticed the lanky figure on his front doorstep when it got to its feet.

‘Morse?’ DeBryn blinked as the car came to a stop. He turned off the engine. ‘What on earth...’

It was certainly him, there could be no mistake, even without the cat at his feet, almost falling over in its delighted efforts to rub itself against his ankles.

DeBryn got out of the car and went to the boot, snatching a few precious moments to think. When he shut the boot, however, juggling his bag and jacket and a few papers that had slipped free during the drive, he turned to find Morse next to him.

‘Here.’ Morse lifted the jacket out of DeBryn’s arms, and tugged the handle of the medical bag gently from DeBryn’s unresisting fingers.

‘Morse.’ DeBryn’s words emerged as a sigh. ‘What are you doing here? Inspector Thursday was taking you home.’

‘He did. I sent him away.’ Morse shifted his feet. He looked better than he had that afternoon: more colour in his cheeks, and something like his old snap to his eyes.

‘You’d best come in,’ DeBryn said, trying to sound more hospitable than he felt.

He had work to do, damn it. And it had been a long day, and he didn’t entirely feel up to dealing with Morse in such close proximity this evening, especially not in this fey mood, and DeBryn stamped up the path, digging in his pocket for his keys while Morse trailed after him.

Perhaps the fellow just wanted a prescription for some sleeping pills. Which, now DeBryn came to think of it, didn’t sound at all a bad idea; if it wasn’t frowned upon for doctors to write prescriptions for themselves DeBryn would be severely tempted. Certain elements of today were almost guaranteed to play out against the backs of his eyelids the moment he dropped into slumber.

‘Just dump them on the dining room table,’ DeBryn called over his shoulder, walking straight through to the kitchen, filling the kettle with water and setting it on the hob.

It was the prickle at his nape more than any noise that made DeBryn turn to find Morse watching him from the door.

He had a rumpled look to him, his tie loosened and his hair sticking up erratically, and DeBryn said, ‘Spit it out, then,’ when Morse shifted his feet and drew breath but still didn’t speak.

‘Do you have any Scotch?’ Morse asked.

Slowly, DeBryn took the kettle off the hob. It had rather been that sort of day; he felt in need of a stiff drink himself.

‘Help yourself,’ DeBryn said. ‘And you might pour me one too while you’re there.’

Morse nodded and disappeared down the hall, and DeBryn paused only long enough to drop some cold cooked chicken onto a saucer for the cat before following. But, instead of finding Morse settling by the living room hearth, he almost bumped into Morse coming back out of the room with two generously filled tumblers to herd DeBryn into his own dining room.

Morse handed him a glass and DeBryn took it with murmured thanks. He sipped at his drink – Scotch on an empty stomach was hardly the best idea – but Morse gulped his like a man who had been walking for miles and had just arrived at a fountain. Morse caught DeBryn watching and lowered his glass, wiping his mouth self-consciously.

‘Well.’ DeBryn looked away, and made his way to one of the armchairs flanking the fireplace. ‘Rather a day you’ve had.’

‘Yes.’ Morse collapsed into the other armchair. He was restless, fidgeting with his glass, brushing at a smudge on the knee of his trousers, and after a moment he was out of his chair and pacing again.

‘The thing is,’ Morse said, walking over to the French windows and staring unseeingly out at the garden, ‘that I thought I was... I really thought, you know, that that was it. That my number was up.’

‘Yes,’ DeBryn said quietly.

Morse took another drink of Scotch – his glass almost empty by now, despite the generous measures – and strode over to the mantelpiece.

‘What I mean to say is,’ Morse explained to the mantelpiece, to the clock DeBryn had bought himself for his university digs, ‘I knew, going into the maze, that I might not come back out. And on my way in there I ought to have been concentrating on the best way to get back out again, but all I could think of were all the things I’d not done.’

‘It’s natural enough,’ DeBryn offered mildly from his armchair as Morse tapped his fingers agitatedly against the mantelpiece. ‘A brush with death often turns the mind to unfinished business.’

‘Yes,’ Morse agreed, still not looking at DeBryn. ‘Yes, that’s it exactly.’

He ran a hand distractedly over his nape, rumpling his hair. The movement made his suit jacket ride up, and DeBryn discreetly noted the brown leather belt snug around his narrow hips. The curve of his arse, half-hidden by the hanging folds of his jacket.

‘What is it you feel you’ve left unfinished?’ DeBryn asked when Morse remained silent, curious to see how far he would be permitted to push. A rather personal question, perhaps, but Morse had never had a fear of ducking those he didn’t want to answer.

‘I...’ Morse glanced at him, his eyes huge, his brows furrowed with worry. ‘It’s difficult to...’

He looked as harrowed up as though he were confessing a murder, and DeBryn had just drawn breath to tell him so when Morse thrust his glass roughly onto the mantelpiece, took two steps to DeBryn’s chair, and leant abruptly down to press his mouth to DeBryn’s.

Startled, DeBryn jerked back, almost dropping his whisky glass, but Morse followed him and pressed him back into the armchair, his kiss clumsy and awkward but so heartbreakingly sincere that DeBryn’s hand rose without thought to stroke along his jaw.

This was all wrong. The poor chap had just had a bad fright, this was an impulse borne of the last panicky remnants of adrenaline and the stark fact of his own mortality. DeBryn ought to push him away, give him a moment to collect himself.

But his lips were soft and dry, and the warm press of his nose against DeBryn’s set DeBryn’s stomach to fluttering in giddy longing. Dear God, time and good intentions had done nothing to erase how much DeBryn wanted him.

DeBryn thrust out his hand, shoving his whisky glass on the side table, and heard a rustle and thump as his journals spilled to the floor, knocking over the potted palm. He cupped Morse’s jaw in his hands and Morse, sensing a granting of permission, fisted his hands in DeBryn’s shirtfront. For a moment they were locked together, with DeBryn trying to tug Morse down into the armchair and Morse resisting, until Morse fell to his knees and pulled DeBryn forward and, with gravity against him, DeBryn was hauled out of his armchair and sprawled on the hearthrug.

Morse’s hands were everywhere: grabbing his shoulders, sliding around his waist to clutch fistfuls of his shirt, and stroking frantically down his arms to fasten tightly around his wrists, and DeBryn wanted to say to him, _Alright, you’re alright_ , because there was something almost desperate in Morse’s rough caresses, the panicky clutch of his hands on DeBryn’s back.

Morse lurched away and DeBryn gasped for breath, his heart racing. They ought to go upstairs, rather than rolling around on the floor, but Morse only lifted his glasses from his nose and leaned up to put them on the side table before returning to kiss him hungrily.

DeBryn wrapped his arms tightly around Morse, his blood pounding and his hips pressing forwards, before bringing his hands up to fumble at Morse’s tie, wrenching it off him and flinging it aside. He pushed Morse’s jacket off his shoulders and opened the buttons of Morse’s shirt, splaying his hands briefly across warm skin and firm muscle, but Morse was hard, his cock pushing against DeBryn’s hip, and DeBryn worked a knee between Morse’s thighs and reached lower to grip his arse, dragging him close and forcing a moan from him.

The next instant Morse’s hand dipped lower, resting on DeBryn’s belt buckle, just inches from DeBryn’s erection caught uncomfortably in his underwear, and DeBryn bit his lip, his cheeks hot, as Morse began to tug at the leather. 

Hands shaking, DeBryn reached down to open his belt, and he had barely pulled the tongue free of the buckle before Morse was pushing his hands away and fumbling with his trouser button and zip. DeBryn wrapped his arms around Morse, his pulse leaping and spiking as Morse worked his trousers and underwear down off his hips, and when Morse licked perfunctorily across his palm and closed his fingers around his cock, DeBryn moaned.

It was like a dream. In the wake of Morse’s departure DeBryn had lost himself in thoughts of this, drawing half on painful memory and half on fevered fantasy. But in fantasy things were never so deliciously imperfect: the floor was too hard against his spine, Morse was half-lying on his arm, and with nothing more than saliva to ease the way it was awkward, almost uncomfortable. But it wasn’t enough to calm DeBryn’s rising excitement, the desperate thrust of his hips up into Morse’s hand, and he dragged his hands along Morse’s waist and fumbled at Morse’s belt while Morse kissed him, his fingers fluttering around DeBryn’s arousal and smoothing the slickness from the tip down along the underside.

It was too much, the scent of Morse in his nose reminding DeBryn exactly who he was with, the clever dance of Morse’s fingers teasing every sensitive spot along his cock, and – when he finally got Morse’s trousers open and shoved roughly out of the way – the solid thickness of Morse’s cock in his fist. At the first drag of DeBryn’s fingers along his length Morse moaned desperately into DeBryn’s shoulder, his cock twitching sharply against DeBryn’s palm, and DeBryn gave a choking gasp and began to pulse into Morse’s grip.

His eyes closed involuntarily as he shuddered through his orgasm, and Morse’s hand was still drawing shivers from him when DeBryn opened his eyes and caught Morse’s mouth in a kiss. His free hand slid up from Morse’s nape to tangle in his hair, his other hand firming on Morse’s erection, and Morse let DeBryn’s cock slide free and dragged his wet hand along his own cock, slicking himself with DeBryn’s climax.

It was far easier like this, and when DeBryn began to pull at his cock Morse shuddered, pressing DeBryn onto his back and half-climbing on top of him to thrust his cock into DeBryn’s hand, leaning down to kiss him hotly.

It was frantic, almost desperate, and DeBryn found himself struggling to keep up. He pulled at Morse’s cock with tight fingers, rougher than he would have usually been but Morse shuddered, tucking his face against DeBryn’s throat and thrusting tightly into the curl of DeBryn’s palm. He lifted his head to kiss DeBryn, but when DeBryn reached down to grip his arse, his other hand thumbing at the soft head of his cock, Morse’s face crumpled and he moaned through gritted teeth, his cock jerking in DeBryn’s fist and warm wetness spreading between their stomachs.

DeBryn eased him through it, until Morse half-collapsed on top of DeBryn, burying his sweaty face in DeBryn’s throat, his hair tickling DeBryn’s jaw. DeBryn paused to wipe his palms on his already ruined shirt before putting his arms around the fellow, one hand in the delicious hollow of his lumbar curve, the other resting uselessly between sharp shoulder blades, and Morse panted hot breath into the crook of DeBryn’s neck.

Without his glasses, the ceiling of his dining room was a dim and distant blur, the evening sunlight sending a streak of gold across the ceiling and down the far wall, and DeBryn watched it, dazed.

Absurdly, the thought arose that it was a perfect evening to spend an hour or two on the river. He might have gone, in fact, if Morse hadn’t ambushed him as soon as he got home. If Morse had arrived just half an hour later... but then the fellow would have arrived to an empty house, and no-one to whom he could pour out his woes.

No-one available for a quick fuck, either, and DeBryn twitched in annoyance. At Morse, for thinking he could waltz in whenever he felt like it. At himself, for allowing him to do so. At the universe, for giving him such a weakness for blue eyes and a sharp jaw line and a well-read mind.

Abruptly DeBryn grew aware that he was uncomfortable. The floor was too hard for his back, especially under their combined weight. His trousers were twisted awkwardly around his thighs, his shirt was sticky and disgusting, and – he lifted his head, squinting – the steady dripping noise nagging at the edge of hearing came from the side table. When rolling around one of them must have kicked it, for the whisky tumbler had fallen over and was dripping its contents onto the carpet, next to the overturned potted palm.

DeBryn grunted, pushing at Morse’s shoulder. ‘Get off.’

Dear God, he needed to send the fellow packing. He had begun to get his life into order, to settle into new routines and imagine a future that didn’t involve Morse, and now here he was disrupting DeBryn’s carefully ordered life simply because he felt like it. As Morse muttered an apology, shifting, DeBryn squirmed and _heaved_ , tipping Morse off and sending him sprawling on the carpet.

The sight of him pink-cheeked and tousled sent a shiver of renewed arousal through DeBryn. It was tempting to put off the moment until tomorrow morning, but it was that sort of weakness that had left him in this fix to begin with and DeBryn firmed his resolve.

‘Morse,’ he began, raising his voice as Morse opened his mouth, ‘what the devil do you think you’re playing at by coming in here and–’

‘I love you,’ Morse interrupted.

Shocked into silence, DeBryn stared at him.

‘That’s the unfinished business, that’s what I–’

‘No,’ DeBryn said faintly. And then, as the words sank in, he repeated it more forcefully: ‘No.’

Morse gazed at him, brows pinched anxiously. ‘I do. You’re... you’re kind, and clever, and I was such a fool, I never–’

‘I mean no, Morse, I–’ DeBryn nipped his lip, his irritation waxing fast into anger. Once upon a time he would have given anything to hear those words, would have cut off his own hand to be the man’s beloved. But to hear them now, after all that had passed, and at the very moment he had settled into his decision to find affection elsewhere... ‘ _No_.’

DeBryn pulled his trousers and underwear up, tucking himself away with an oversensitive little shiver, wriggling at the awkwardness of doing so lying down.

‘But–’

‘You’re coming down from an enormous spike of adrenaline. It’s bad enough that we...’ DeBryn waved a hand helplessly between them. ‘This isn’t you talking.’

‘It is me,’ Morse insisted, but DeBryn ignored him and sat up. He was too hot, sweat sticking his shirt to his armpits and the small of his back. ‘As I was going into, well, you know. All I could think was that I hadn’t–’

‘Enough,’ DeBryn snapped out. He glanced down. Even with shirt opened and trousers halfway down his thighs Morse managed to look merely debauched, rather than the sweaty, ungainly mess DeBryn felt.

‘You can’t’ –DeBryn almost stuttered in his anger– ‘you can’t just come in here and say things like that.’

Morse’s chin jutted stubbornly. ‘But it’s true.’ 

‘I don’t care if it’s true!’ DeBryn shouted suddenly, startling them both.

In the ringing silence he climbed awkwardly to his feet, picking up his glasses from the side table and trying to find a clean corner of his ruined shirt to wipe away their whisky splashes. But it was a lost cause and so, without another word, he stalked through to the kitchen and turned on the tap with shaking hands.

What had he done to deserve this? Such a monstrous joke for the universe to play on him, and DeBryn didn’t turn when he heard the scuff of Morse’s footsteps approaching. ‘Max...’

‘No,’ DeBryn said sharply, looking down at the glasses he was carefully soaping and rinsing. ‘You’re exhausted, you’ve had a bad shock, and I doubt you’ve eaten anything since that biscuit I gave you earlier’ –DeBryn didn’t need to turn, Morse’s guilty silence spoke volumes– ‘and if my opinion means anything to you you’ll stop this right now.’

There was nothing from Morse, and when DeBryn finally turned off the tap the silence was almost deafening. DeBryn picked up the tea towel and dried his glasses meticulously, not daring to turn, and when Morse’s footsteps retreated he exhaled an enormous breath.

So much for that. But almost at once he became aware that, rather than the slam of the front door, there were small noises coming from the dining room.

When DeBryn stamped through, ready to demand what the hell the fellow was playing at now, Morse was righting the overturned plant. He carefully scooped up handfuls of black crumbling soil, and patted it around the fragile roots with such gentleness that DeBryn’s anger melted away.

After a moment Morse spoke, directing his words at the plant, not meeting DeBryn’s eyes. ‘Sorry.’ He darted a guilty look at the overset whisky glass, the wet patch on the carpet that would smell for weeks, no matter how DeBryn scrubbed it. ‘I didn’t mean to make a mess.’

_You never do_. It was on the tip of DeBryn’s tongue but he forbore to say it, only went tiredly to fetch a wet cloth.

Morse stood uselessly off to one side when DeBryn returned, and when DeBryn had taken the worst of the Scotch out of the carpet he got to his feet and looked Morse over with a critical eye. ‘You’d best comb your hair and wash your face, no-one could mistake what you’ve been doing.’

Not with his hair sweaty and his mouth kissed into redness, and those unfortunate wet patches all down his shirtfront. DeBryn’s firm resolve of disowning all responsibility for the fellow warred with his natural instincts for neatness and order, before he added grudgingly, ‘And if you give me that shirt I’ll put it through the washing machine with my own.’

Morse’s long fingers flickered down his shirt front, and DeBryn watched the slow reveal of pale skin, the slenderness of his waist and the play of muscles in his shoulders and chest as he shrugged it off.

‘Here.’ Morse held out the bundle of material and DeBryn took it, trying not to let his eyes dip lower than those deceptively delicate collarbones.

‘Very well. I can lend you a shirt to go home in, and you can return it–’

‘Can I stay?’ Morse interrupted.

DeBryn’s indignant refusal was on the tip of his tongue, but died at the sight of Morse’s hopeful expression. And, beneath it, the lost and weary air that signalled the end of a particularly gruelling case, with Morse about to drop where he stood.

So instead he merely looked at Morse warningly over the tops of his glasses. ‘The only bed on offer is the one in the spare room.’

Morse, for once, held his tongue and didn’t push his luck, merely ducked his head. And when DeBryn walked through to the scullery to load the washing machine, Morse trailed after him.

‘And could I have a bath?’ Morse asked tentatively, as DeBryn dumped Morse’s shirt into the washing machine and began to undo the buttons of his own sweaty, stained shirt.

DeBryn grunted assent. ‘As you please. But leave the water in the tub when you’re done.’

He reached behind himself to tug off his shirt, the fabric clinging and sticking to sweaty skin. And the next instant Morse’s hands were there, easing the fabric over his shoulders and down his arms, brushing over his skin, almost caressing, before reaching past DeBryn to place the shirt on the worktop. A hand settled lightly in the small of his back as DeBryn twisted his fingers tightly into the material and stared blindly at nothing, his heart stuttering.

‘I could do.’ Morse’s fingers moved, the gentlest touch imaginable. ‘Or you could always...’

How often had Morse’s hand rested exactly in that spot? In bed, nails scratching during the throes of passion, or during a quiet embrace offering comfort, or as an absent pressure when Morse wanted to reach past him in the kitchen?

And now here he was with another want, long after DeBryn had abandoned all hope of Morse wanting anything of him ever again.

‘I...’ DeBryn got out at last, his stomach twisting and his desire warring with his better sense. He swallowed hard. ‘No. No, I don’t think I could.’

Thank heavens Morse didn’t press the matter, for DeBryn wasn’t sure his willpower could have stood up to it again. Instead he slipped away, and DeBryn closed his eyes, sighing.

He scrubbed the heel of his hand over his temple, and made himself deal with the necessities. Finish loading the machine with the rest of the laundry and set it going. Clear their empty glasses into the kitchen and open the French windows to air the dining room. Even, after a brief struggle with himself, make a tray of tea and toast and take it to the bathroom, along with a set of clean pyjamas.

DeBryn set it all down just outside the door, and tapped lightly. A splashing came from inside and Morse called, ‘It’s not locked.’

Heat flooded DeBryn’s face. Morse in the bath, naked, long limbs stretched out and pale skin flushed pink... The chap was trying to send him mad and DeBryn laid his palm briefly against the door and gritted his teeth, caught between wanting to throttle the fellow and wanting to accept the implicit invitation.

‘There are things outside, when you’re ready for them,’ DeBryn called instead. ‘Fresh togs, and so on.’

He didn’t wait to hear the response. Instead he let his hand drop from the door, and went downstairs to pour himself another finger of whisky and stand bare-chested at the back door. A breeze had sprung up, dispersing the last of the day’s heat, and he closed his eyes under the welcome coolness on his hot face, his shoulders. He lit a cigarette and took a long draw, blowing the smoke away and watching it disperse on the wind.

The cat came to sit at his feet, peering out into the garden, its ears pricked and nose twitching at all the nighttime scents. What an uncomplicated life it must be, living only in the moment and free of regrets, and DeBryn watched the breeze stir the branches and rustle the leaves of the apple tree and muttered, ‘“Into my heart an air that kills”.’

He took another deep lungful of smoke, staring out at the garden in the warm evening dusk as though it held the answer to all riddles. Such as how on earth he was supposed to sleep tonight, knowing that a warm, willing, freshly bathed Morse was in the room next door, and would be only too pleased should DeBryn decide to crawl into his bed during the night.

Save that that was precisely the problem, and DeBryn sourly flicked the ash from the tip of his cigarette. He wanted it _tonight_ , yes, because he was frightened, and still half in shock, and out of his senses from lack of sleep and food. But tomorrow night? Or next week? Next month?

And yet under the forgiving cover of night, with such temptation within arm’s reach, a fellow might almost convince himself that a night was enough. DeBryn drew a last lungful, looking at the faint smudge of the Pleiades just visible over the top of the apple tree.

‘No,’ he said quietly, crushing the cigarette stub and dropping it into the pot he kept outside the back door.

He exhaled a last plume of smoke and watched it curl and disperse before, in a moment of weakness, picking up the cat. Unusually it made no protest but only sat quiescent in his arms, and he stroked its silky head and spoke to it.

‘“And now the fancy passes by, and nothing will remain”.’ He smiled bitterly at the empty garden. ‘“And miles around they'll say that I am quite myself again”.’

\----------

The scream jerked DeBryn half out of bed almost before he woke, flinging back the covers and reaching for his glasses before his eyes were fully open, his feet on the floor before its echoes had died away. His first muzzy thought was Mrs Elliott next door, of fire or burglars, before he remembered Morse in his spare room.

A second hoarse cry came straight after the first, when DeBryn had his hand on the doorknob of the spare bedroom, and was followed by an enormous crash that shook the house.

‘Christ,’ DeBryn muttered, appalled, and then nearly shrieked himself as something brushed his ankle before he recalled the cat, extended the special privilege of sleeping upstairs that night.

It fled down the stairs as he snapped on the bedroom light to reveal the bedside table overturned and Morse sprawled on the floor by the bed, twisted up in his bedding, staring about himself wild-eyed.

‘Alright Morse.’ DeBryn crossed swiftly to him and dropped to his knees, reaching out a steadying hand as Morse caught his forearm in a bruising grip. ‘It’s just a dream. You’re safe.’

‘It’s here.’ The whites of Morse’s eyes were visible all around the pupils and his gaze moved jerkily around the room, the tendons standing out sharply in his neck. ‘It’s here, I have to–’

‘You’re safe.’ DeBryn gripped Morse’s forearm, gave it a little shake. ‘Morse. Look at me.’

Morse’s head twisted round on his neck, staring nervily into the corner behind the wardrobe, his muscles twitching like he had St Vitus’ dance, and DeBryn summoned the voice he kept for particularly incompetent police constables, and for Kemp, and snapped: ‘ _Morse_.’

This made Morse’s head jerk back around, and DeBryn held his gaze and repeated firmly: ‘You’re fine. You’re safe, Morse. It was a dream, nothing more.’

Morse stared at him, uncomprehending, and DeBryn added slowly: ‘It’s dead. Mr Bright shot it. Don’t you remember?’

‘Yes,’ Morse said at last, hoarse. He shuddered. ‘When it was leaping. If he hadn’t–’

‘But he did,’ DeBryn cut in firmly, before Morse’s overactive imagination could take him too far down that road. ‘And you’re safe.’

‘Safe,’ Morse echoed blankly, before blinking and sucking in a huge, strangled gasp of air. ‘Oh Christ. What a bloody awful dream.’

‘Yes.’ Discreetly DeBryn tried to recover his arm; Morse looked down, seeming to notice for the first time how hard he was gripping it, and dropped his hand quickly.

‘I’m sorry.’ Morse scrubbed his hands over his face. His voice, through his fingers, sounded miserable. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Nonsense,’ DeBryn said briskly. ‘Only to be expected, after the day you’ve had.’

‘I meant for–’ Morse’s waved hand took in the overturned nightstand, the glass of water sent flying across the room, the fact of himself there in borrowed pyjamas with his hands fisted to still their shaking.

‘Nonsense,’ DeBryn repeated, ‘you’ve nothing to apologise for.’

He got to his feet to retrieve the glass from where it had landed, mercifully unbroken on the soft carpet, and took it to the bathroom. He let the tap run for a few moments until the water was truly cold, before refilling the glass and bringing it back to Morse, who hadn’t lifted his face from his hands.

‘Sip this,’ DeBryn ordering, jostling Morse’s elbow until he reached for the glass. ‘Slowly.’

He watched Morse obey and eyed the pyjamas clinging damply to him with fear-sweat, before reaching for the sheet and blankets twisted tightly about Morse’s legs, his movements slow and his voice calm.

‘Small wonder you had a nightmare, all tangled up in this.’

To say nothing of sleeping in a full set of flannel pyjamas on a warm June night. DeBryn had loaned them to Morse in lieu of a dressing gown; he couldn’t have coped with the fellow swanning about in a bathrobe, with only a loosely knotted belt preserving his modesty.

But DeBryn hadn’t reckoned on the boyish charm of Morse in pyjamas, his bare feet and damp curling hair somehow just as appealing. And he certainly hadn’t expected Morse to sleep in them, he must be simply boiling.

After a few moments Morse roused himself to squirm free of the tangled mess, his pyjama bottoms pulling down briefly to expose a pale hip before he tugged them back up. DeBryn said nothing, merely stood to smooth down the undersheet before beginning to remake the bed, and after a pause Morse stood shakily and came to help.

When it was finished – sheet and blankets straight and corners neatly tucked, no hint of the mess it had been – Morse approached it slowly, eyeing it as though it were a medieval torture device. DeBryn affected not to notice as he instead righted the bedside table, switching on the gentle glow of the bedside lamp and turning off the more stark overhead light.

‘Sorry,’ Morse said again.

DeBryn tutted at him. ‘Do stop apologising, for goodness’ sake. I always took you for an intelligent sort of fellow.’

Morse’s face twitched, as though he had a ready retort on the tip of his tongue, but he remained silent and merely approached the bed, sitting on the edge and twisting his hands together in his lap.

Small wonder he was reluctant, and DeBryn quietly sat next to him.

‘No rush to go back to bed just yet,’ DeBryn remarked, looking down at their twin pairs of bare feet resting on the rug.

‘No,’ Morse agreed. He passed a hand over his face, a hand that still trembled visibly.

They stayed silent a moment, before Morse spoke again. ‘If I were at home I’d get up. Have a drink. Put a record on, perhaps.’

‘At this hour? What a delightful neighbour you must be,’ DeBryn commented dryly, and was relieved at Morse’s shaky huff of amusement.

Another pause, a longer one this time, with Morse’s hands fidgeting restlessly with each other in his lap, and DeBryn counted the seconds in his head before Morse gave in.

‘Actually, I might just go and have a–’

‘You can if you want,’ DeBryn said mildly, as Morse rose and took a step towards the bedroom door, ‘I shan’t stop you. But it won’t work.’

Morse paused, stiff-backed and silent.

‘Better men than you have tried to lose bad memories down the neck of a bottle,’ DeBryn continued. ‘It doesn’t do any good.’ He looked at Morse’s tight shoulders. ‘Sooner or later the mind demands its due, and it gets no easier for being postponed.’

The room was very quiet, until Morse heaved a sigh. ‘I suppose not.’

He returned to sit on the edge of the bed, the pale green stripe of his borrowed pyjamas stark against the dark brown blanket. He braced his elbows on his knees, and sank his head into his hands. It exposed the vulnerable skin at his nape, with the short downy hairs that feathered to a V. They looked soft, but DeBryn recalled them feeling even softer. He flexed his hand and looked away.

‘I could give you a prescription for sleeping pills,’ DeBryn offered gently. ‘But some people find they make it harder to wake up.’

Morse shuddered, so strongly that the bed quivered under him.

‘No,’ he said brusquely, before adding, in a belated show of manners: ‘Thank you.’

Presumably the idea of struggling to wake from a nightmare held more fear than the prospect of staring sleepless at the ceiling for hours. With terrors like that waiting for him in his dreams DeBryn could hardly blame him. He wanted desperately to say or do something useful, something to show Morse he wasn’t alone with this, and cast about helplessly for comforting words until he grew aware of Morse’s breathing changing. Growing ragged, and erratic, and when Morse inhaled shakily and pinched the bridge of his nose DeBryn felt a fool for not realising earlier.

‘Morse...’

‘Don’t.’ Morse’s voice was thick, clogged. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Of course you’re not, no-one in their right mind could possibly be fine after all that.’

DeBryn reached automatically for his handkerchief before remembering he was in his pyjamas, and instead he rested a hand gently on Morse’s nape.

‘Don’t,’ Morse said again, even as he dragged his pyjama cuff across his eyes, ‘don’t look at me like that.’

But DeBryn couldn’t look away, not for anything in the world, until Morse – uncomfortable at being subjected to the same sort of scrutiny he so often turned on others – reached out pettishly and snapped off the bedside light.

The room was plunged into darkness. But, far from putting distance between them, DeBryn was more aware than ever of Morse’s bare skin under his palm, the whispering noises of the air he drew into his lungs. And the cover of darkness seemed to loosen something in Morse, for when DeBryn weakened and murmured, ‘Come here, now, you’re alright,’ Morse needed very little urging to let DeBryn slide an arm over his shoulders and draw him close.

Morse’s arms wrapped around DeBryn, fingers curling into his pyjama jacket, his head dropping heavily to DeBryn’s shoulder, and for a long moment DeBryn simply held him tightly, letting Morse take what comfort he could from a strong shoulder to lean on in the small hours, when the world seemed at its worst.

DeBryn couldn’t pinpoint the moment things changed. One moment he was holding Morse tightly, rubbing his back in silent comfort, and the next he found himself pressing a kiss to the crown of Morse’s head. Morse’s hair was warm against DeBryn’s nose and mouth, smelling deliciously of DeBryn’s own shampoo, and DeBryn only realised what he had done when Morse froze.

There were so many reasons he shouldn’t, but DeBryn closed his eyes and rested his face against Morse’s hair. He rubbed his cheek against the curve of Morse’s skull and, when Morse cautiously raised his head from DeBryn’s shoulder, DeBryn pressed his mouth to Morse’s temple, his ear, the corner of his jaw where it was rough with stubble. He brushed his lips over Morse’s cheek until Morse turned his head slightly, noses bumping, and DeBryn could finally touch his lips to Morse’s own.

Morse was slow to respond. Like a man in an enchantment, who feared it would all vanish the instant he reached to grasp it, he submitted willingly to DeBryn’s kisses dropping lightly on his face and lips, but made no move to reciprocate, until DeBryn cradled Morse’s nape in his hand and licked gently at his lower lip.

Slowly, Morse’s fists loosened their clutch on DeBryn’s pyjamas, smoothing out until his hands pressed warmly against DeBryn’s spine, and when Morse roused himself and began to return DeBryn’s kisses, they tightened again in quite a different hold altogether.

Morse’s kisses were slow to come. Slow, and tentative, and DeBryn had a brief guilty pang at how he must be confusing the fellow: sex, before pulling away moments later, and now this. But Morse was responding properly now, and DeBryn brushed his tongue lightly against Morse’s and Morse pulled in a shaky breath through his nose.

There was no talking, thank goodness. DeBryn couldn’t have borne it if there had been, if Morse had hesitated or questioned. Instead there was just the forgiving darkness, that magnified the sensations of hands and mouths. There was Morse leaning backwards, getting into the bed willingly now, and pulling DeBryn with him. Their hands colliding on buttons and drawstring ties, clumsy with desire and the lack of light, and two sets of pyjamas eventually discarded onto the floor.

There was Morse, hot and hard against DeBryn’s thigh, and DeBryn pressed him silently back into the pillows as he worked his knees between Morse’s thighs to lie full length on him and push his own arousal to Morse’s. The first drag of dry skin brought a hoarse gasp from Morse, and he pulled away from DeBryn’s kisses to lick across his palm and fingers before reaching down. DeBryn inhaled sharply at the spike of lust in his belly as Morse’s fingers gathered them both into his warm, wet fist, and settled himself above Morse, braced on his elbows and kissing him as Morse stroked them tightly.

This was for Morse, this time, and DeBryn braced his weight on one elbow and ran his other hand over Morse’s chest, across his too-thin waist, pushing his thigh higher around DeBryn’s hip and listening to his groan of pleasure. DeBryn’s own pleasure was almost an afterthought: more than anything he wanted Morse undone with sex. He wanted him sleepy and sated, not staring nervily into dark corners and jumping at shadows.

It didn’t take long before Morse was moaning quietly, his palm growing slick as he got close. DeBryn kissed him hard, smearing desperate kisses along his jaw and dipping lower to bite lightly at the spot just under his ear that Morse liked, gasping a little at the sensation of Morse’s cock jerking hard against his own. Morse’s thighs were tight around his hips, his hands setting a frantic pace between them, and DeBryn began to thrust into Morse’s grip, following the rhythm Morse was setting, dragging the length of his erection along Morse’s own, deliberately trying to arouse, to push him closer to his finish.

Morse’s hands tightened, his kisses turning messy, desperate, and after a moment he gasped, ‘Oh God.’

‘Yes,’ DeBryn whispered to him, thrusting harder. Sweat was slick under his arms and in the small of his back, but Morse was shuddering and going to pieces beneath him, and DeBryn ducked his head to mutter breathless, filthy encouragement to him until Morse’s long back arched and he came, sobbing for breath.

Warm slickness on his stomach, and on Morse’s hands where they gripped him, and DeBryn thrust into Morse’s grip, his eyes fluttering closed, and chased his own finish while Morse pulled at him and thumbed at the head of his cock, until the hot shudders of pleasure rippling through his hips and spine coalesced and he came into Morse’s clever hands.

Afterwards DeBryn sank down on top of Morse, catching his breath as his heart slowly calmed. Morse was hot and panting beneath him, rubbing his calf along DeBryn’s, nuzzling the side of his head and his ear for blurred kisses. DeBryn dipped his chin, seeking Morse’s mouth in the darkness, and kissed him softly, a gentle press of lips intended merely to comfort, until Morse sighed in a way that implied all demons were banished, at least temporarily.

His shoulders aching, DeBryn shifted off Morse to lie beside him. The single bed was small for two grown men, and DeBryn tucked himself between Morse and the wall and thought about suggesting they move to his own larger bed next door, and perhaps the application of a damp washcloth en route. But then Morse shifted, turning to face DeBryn, sliding an arm around his waist and a leg over his thighs, his stomach warm against DeBryn’s as he kissed DeBryn’s mouth sleepily.

Morse rested his forehead against DeBryn’s and muttered, ‘Stay.’ His fingers fumbled before fastening tightly onto DeBryn’s shoulder. ‘Please.’

Against DeBryn’s chest Morse’s heart still beat hard and fast, and DeBryn settled an arm around Morse, holding him close. He stroked his fingers gently along Morse’s spine, and hadn’t the heart to ask him to move.

‘Alright then. Sleep.’

Nothing more was needed. Morse sighed out a breath, his muscles loosening, and DeBryn cupped his palm over the back of Morse’s head, as though to protect him from the worst that the night and his own mind could hold.

A jolt, further down the bed, made DeBryn jump slightly and announced the cat’s return. Morse hadn’t so much as stirred, and DeBryn shifted his feet to let the cat curl up in the space between them.

It had followed them upstairs at the end of the evening and DeBryn, knowing Morse’s fondness for it, had refrained from shooing it back down to its own perfectly comfortable bed by the kitchen stove. He had expected it to follow Morse into the spare room, but while hanging up his trousers he had found it sitting just inside his bedroom door, tail curled neatly around its forefeet, its gaze green and unblinking.

‘No.’ DeBryn had crossed the room, opening his bedroom door and urging it gently out into the hallway with the toe of his slipper. ‘Not tonight. Go to him. Go on.’

The cat had stalked off, offended, and DeBryn had lingered long enough to see it slip into the spare bedroom, and hear Morse’s murmur of welcome, before closing his own door.

It hadn’t brought him the comfort DeBryn had hoped, but now its purr rose faintly in the darkness and Morse sighed in his sleep. His fingers twitched against DeBryn’s spine. Dreaming, perhaps, and DeBryn – drowsy himself – pressed his lips to Morse’s forehead and relaxed under the half-forgotten weight of Morse’s arm. 

\----------

Two grown men squashed into a single bed didn’t make for a restful night’s sleep, even without accounting for nightmares and interruptions, and DeBryn woke groggy and heavy-headed. He knew a moment of total disorientation, naked in a bed not his own, before memories of last night surfaced and he groaned softly.

His stomach and thighs were itchy, his lips tender from kissing, and his face warmed as he shifted his legs and discovered his penis was faintly sore. Hardly surprising after two rounds of sex with nothing more than saliva to ease the way, and he groaned under his breath, half in discomfort, and half at the magnitude of what he had done. He flung an arm over his face, but no sooner had he shut out sight than he grew aware of a faint ticking and lifted his elbow again.

His alarm clock had found its way from the master bedroom to the small bedside table, and DeBryn leaned over to pick it up and squint at its face. Ten minutes until the alarm was due to sound. But – he turned it over – the alarm had been switched off. All Morse’s doing, presumably, although Lord knew what he was playing at, but DeBryn spared it no more than a thought as guilt gnawed sharply at him.

Dear God, what he had done. It had been easy, in the small hours and the darkness, to let comfort turn into kisses, and then things had taken their course as naturally as the world turning from winter to spring.

But DeBryn lay in the warm hollow left by Morse’s body, in the unforgiving light of day, and wished himself anywhere but there.

He sat up and leaned against the headboard. He should go. Rise, and dress, and face Morse with armour firmly in place. But he gripped the edge of the sheet and blankets – distracted momentarily at the fact of Morse pausing to pull the blanket up over him before he left – and heard Morse’s step at the top of the stairs, the low murmur of his voice as he addressed a remark to the cat, and before DeBryn could move Morse nudged open the door.

Nudged it open with his foot, for his hands were full with a tray, and when he saw DeBryn sitting up Morse ducked his head, darting a smile at him.

‘Morning.’

DeBryn said nothing, his stomach curdling in dread as Morse approached. The teapot was on the tray, with two teacups and – curiously – a mug, and a plate stacked with buttered toast.

‘I didn’t know if you would want tea or coffee,’ Morse said, into the silence, ‘so I made both. And toast. I know you like breakfast, and I’ –he gave a shy smile– ‘I’m starving.’

Morse had tugged on DeBryn’s pyjama bottoms, and without his glasses DeBryn watched the lines of his torso gradually come into focus, the bright blur of his head resolve itself into a mess of curls. Hidden in his lap, DeBryn knotted his hands tightly.

‘Morse...’ DeBryn began weakly. He had to put a stop to this misunderstanding, and at once, but Morse stood by the bed with a softness in his face and his eyes tired but so very happy.

‘Max.’ Morse perched on the edge of the bed, not even pausing to put down the tray, and leaned in to kiss DeBryn’s cheek. DeBryn closed his eyes briefly at the warm press of lips, his heart fluttering even as he despised his own weakness.

When Morse drew back it was only far enough to murmur, conspiratorially, ‘“Western wind, when wilt thou blow”.’

He leaned back in, seeking DeBryn’s mouth, and DeBryn couldn’t help himself: he flinched, turning his face away sharply.

The silence that followed was like the oppressive air just before a summer storm, and was no less dreadful for only lasting a few moments. Morse sat back. ‘What’s wrong?’

He twisted, trying to look into DeBryn’s face, and when DeBryn stared resolutely down at his lap, not daring to meet Morse’s eyes, the mattress dipped suddenly as Morse stood. He shoved the tray onto the bedside table in a rattle of crockery, and DeBryn winced at the bang of the little alarm clock knocked onto the floor, like a harbinger of the storm about to break.

‘You’ve changed your mind again,’ Morse said flatly, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

DeBryn swallowed hard. It didn’t seem the moment to point out that he had never really changed it back last night; that what they had done, in the dark, had been prompted by pity.

‘So what brought this on then?’ All tenderness had disappeared from Morse’s tone, his words clipped.

DeBryn twisted his fingers tightly into a fold of the blanket, but couldn’t find strength for his voice. ‘I just think it a bad idea.’

Morse made a disgusted sound. ‘You certainly like to give out mixed messages.’

DeBryn’s temper stirred. He wasn’t the one who had spent the last two years pulling them into each other’s orbits, only to drop out again abruptly when it pleased him, and he snapped, ‘No more so than yourself.’

Morse looked startled. As well he might; DeBryn was often tart but it was rare that he truly lost his temper. DeBryn reached for his glasses and fumbled them onto his face. ‘Have you forgotten Witney? And that note you left in January before taking yourself off; I had thought I might have merited the courtesy of a conversation, at least.’

Morse had the grace to flush. ‘I apologised for that.’

‘Yes, yes.’ DeBryn waved his hand, brushing this aside. ‘And very prettily done it was too, and I’ve no doubt you meant it. But I did tell you that one day those words wouldn’t be enough.’ DeBryn clasped his hands together in his lap, looking down at them. ‘And besides. I missed you.’ His mouth pinched. ‘Dreadfully.’

In his peripheral vision he saw Morse’s expression soften, and Morse sat on the bed. ‘Max...’

‘And _now_ you say want this,’ DeBryn went on. It was like slicing into an abscess to drain off its poison; now he had finally begun to speak the flow of bitter words poured out of him. ‘But what of the next time you find it a distraction’ –he leaned on the word, recalling Morse’s feeble excuse back in April– ‘and decide it’s not convenient? I’m not one of your records, to be picked up and then put away again as your whims dictate.’

DeBryn paused, breathless, his heart racing, and Morse watched him with an odd expression. ‘No. You’re not.’

Morse’s hand stirred, reaching tentatively, but DeBryn drew his own hand away and added, bitterly, ‘And I’m tired of having to paper over the cracks each time you tear yourself out of my life.’

‘I didn’t know.’ Morse studied DeBryn’s face, his gaze scanning intently over DeBryn’s eyes, the unhappy curve of his mouth. ‘You never said.’

DeBryn shifted, looking away from Morse’s gaze, conscious of how close he had come last autumn to confessing his heart to the man before everything had gone so terribly wrong. ‘Yes. Well.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I did tell you I wasn’t a brave man.’

Morse made a dissenting noise but DeBryn knew his faults well enough and he merely shook his head. ‘And anyway, you never... I didn’t think you...’

‘You didn’t think I cared,’ Morse said softly. His hand moved again, this time creeping lower to settle on the lump of DeBryn’s foot under the blankets, and this time DeBryn didn’t move away.

DeBryn rested his folded hands on his drawn-up knees, tugging the blankets higher around his waist and wishing for the armour of clothes.

‘I meant it, you know,’ Morse said. His hand fastened over DeBryn’s foot, squeezed warmly. ‘What I said last night. You did believe me, didn’t you?’

‘I...’ DeBryn couldn’t have lied even if he had wanted to, and he smoothed a thumb along the rise of a knee, feigning interest in the weave of the blanket.

But instead of annoyance, Morse nipped thoughtfully at his lip.

‘“It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden”,’ he murmured, ‘“too like the lightning, which doth cease to be ‘ere one can say ‘It lightens’”.’

Romeo and Juliet. Best not ask which DeBryn was supposed to be in this scenario, and DeBryn looked sharply at Morse but contented himself with muttering, ‘Something like that.’ And then, because he could no more resist than he could change his own sexual preferences, he added, ‘“Too flattering-sweet to be substantial”.’

Morse smiled at that, his hand wrapping across the arch of DeBryn’s foot. ‘“All my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay”–’

‘Don’t,’ DeBryn said sharply, twitching his foot away, and Morse fell silent.

Abruptly DeBryn was tired of it all: tired of sweet words so easily murmured, whose memory left only bitterness when he was once again alone. Tired of staying strong against Morse so set on having his own way.

‘I never took you for a cruel man, Morse.’

Instead of an instinctive rebuttal there was only silence, and DeBryn looked up to see Morse watching him steadily.

‘I’ve never intended to be.’ Morse shifted, turning to face DeBryn and drawing a knee up onto the bed. ‘Will you let me make it up to you?’

DeBryn’s heart sank. ‘Morse...’

‘Please.’ Morse shuffled closer, reaching for DeBryn’s clasped hands resting on his knees, and DeBryn made no move toward him but didn’t resist when Morse gently pulled his hands apart and folded his long fingers around DeBryn’s. ‘Forgive me. I was a fool.’

‘You’re forgiven,’ DeBryn said weakly.

Morse’s hand was warm and strong around his and Morse shuffled minutely closer and repeated, ‘And let me make it up to you.’

DeBryn bit his lip, longing to say yes.

‘Morse, this is dangerous,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t need to tell you how much.’

Morse gripped his hand tighter. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you.’

‘To me?’ DeBryn said sharply. He pulled his hand away and glared. ‘You think I’m such a coward as to be worrying over my _own_ skin? You think, in our respective professions, that _I_ am the one in the more precarious position?’

Morse’s smile was wide, and DeBryn’s heart turned over.

‘Us,’ Morse said, and DeBryn didn’t resist when Morse took his hand again. ‘I won’t let anything happen to us.’

Longing made DeBryn dizzy.

‘You can’t just walk back in here and expect it all to be the same,’ he said, conscious of sounding petulant, unable to stop himself.

‘I know.’ Morse lifted DeBryn’s hand to kiss his knuckles, and DeBryn swallowed hard. ‘I don’t expect it to be. You’re not the man you were.’ He lowered DeBryn’s hand but didn’t let go. ‘I’m not the man I was.’

Throughout it Morse had been inching closer, and now when he leaned in for a kiss DeBryn closed his eyes and allowed Morse to brush their lips together.

‘I don’t want to have to pick up the pieces after you all over again,’ DeBryn said, barely more than a whisper but Morse heard.

‘You won’t.’ He kissed DeBryn’s cheek.

DeBryn shut his eyes, inhaling deeply. Perhaps in some other world he could refuse Morse, but in this one it was impossible: because of who he was, and who Morse was, and what they had been to each other.

‘Very well.’

He had half-expected to be tumbled back into the pillows. He had certainly expected more enthusiasm; he might have wondered if the fellow had heard, if it hadn’t been for the warm clasp of Morse’s hand around his own.

Instead of trying for another kiss Morse sat back, shoulders loose and a smile hovering on his lips, and gave DeBryn’s hand a last squeeze before releasing it.

‘Here.’ Morse reached a long arm over to the bedside table, to pick up a cup and saucer and hold it out to DeBryn. ‘Tea in the mornings, isn’t it?’

‘Actually I’d prefer coffee this morning,’ DeBryn said. His eyes were gritty with tiredness, his limbs still heavy with sleep, and he reached past the hopefully offered teacup to pick up the lukewarm mug of coffee, and hid a smile at the look of chagrin on Morse’s face.

‘Well, have some toast.’ Morse picked up the plate, offering him the now-cold stack.

‘Thank you.’ DeBryn took a piece and Morse smiled, pleased.

This time, when he settled back into place, DeBryn moved over and lifted the covers and Morse squashed in next to him. There was scarcely room for both of them, and thank heaven the bed was wedged firmly against the wall, but Morse’s shoulder pressed warmly against his and DeBryn glanced over to see him smiling against the rim of his teacup. For some reason the sight of Morse’s cheer set uncertainty fluttering anew in DeBryn’s stomach, and when Morse saw DeBryn’s face his smile faltered.

‘Don’t look like that,’ Morse said quietly.

‘I’m not.’ DeBryn struggled to find a smile as carefree as Morse’s had been. ‘I–’

‘It’ll be alright,’ Morse said, ‘trust me.’

So easy for him to say those words, and Morse himself seemed to realise it for he bit his lip.

‘Or at least,’ Morse reached out to pick up the plate of toast and offer it again to DeBryn, ‘trust that I made you breakfast.’

He looked dreadfully appealing like that, with his eyebrows tilted engagingly, the quirk of his mouth inviting DeBryn to share his good mood, and DeBryn took another piece of toast and tried to find a smile among the uncertainty roiling in his chest.

\----------

DeBryn shifted on the pub seat. The table was the most private one he could find, tucked in a corner of the beer garden, and the old wood had been baking in the sun all day and still retained some of its warmth. Around him groups of friends were talking and laughing, enjoying their earned relaxation on a Saturday evening. In short: a spot with everything to recommend it, and absolutely no reason that he should be squirming as though on a bed of nails, and on his second cigarette within ten minutes.

At last he saw him, Anthony’s dark head scanning the crowd, and DeBryn lifted a hand until Anthony nodded in recognition and made his way over to him.

‘Hullo.’ Anthony smiled down at him. ‘Have you just got here?’ 

His shirt collar was open, but he had clearly combed his hair and taken time for a second shave, and DeBryn’s guilt redoubled, gnawing at his stomach.

‘Yes,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette.

‘Well, I might as well get the drinks, since I’m up.’ Anthony jingled the change in his pocket distractedly. ‘A gin and tonic?’

‘Yes please. But wait’ –as Anthony turned to go– ‘sit down a moment.’

On his journey here DeBryn had rehearsed this conversation a dozen times, searching for the right words. But now that the moment was here, he didn’t need to say anything at all; Anthony sat, looked into his face, and his expression turned rueful.

‘I see. Like that, is it?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ muttered DeBryn wretchedly.

‘I’ve no right to ask, of course,’ Anthony said, meeting DeBryn’s gaze candidly, ‘but is it worry over something new?’ He traced a fingertip lightly along the wood grain of the tabletop. ‘Or unfinished business?’

It was none of his business, yet such calm acceptance was more than DeBryn had hoped for. ‘The latter.’

‘Well. All I can say is that he’s a lucky chap.’ Anthony smiled at him, a trace of sadness in the corners of his eyes, and for an instant DeBryn knew a pang of real regret. In another world he could have been happy with this man, but in this world he had Morse, and it would be like forsaking the ocean for a lake.

‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,’ DeBryn said quietly.

‘Nonsense, old man.’ Anthony waved a hand, brushing DeBryn’s guilt aside. ‘What on earth have you to be sorry for? Now then.’ Anthony stood, shoving his hand in his pocket once again. ‘A gin and tonic, was it?’

DeBryn chewed at his lip. ‘If you still want to. If you prefer not to stay then of course I would understand–’

‘Not a bit of it.’ Anthony quirked a smile at him. ‘You promised me tall tales about your fishing prowess.’

DeBryn smiled back, tentatively. ‘So I did.’

As Anthony threaded through the other drinkers, making for the bar, DeBryn removed his glasses and scrubbed his hands over his face, sighing. He had got off lightly, all things considered, and he fished out his cigarette packet and lit another one, inhaling deeply to steady his nerves.

The fellow was far too decent to be caught up in this tangle, the mess that Morse seemed to spin about himself; he didn’t deserve any of this.

But then – as DeBryn saw Anthony threading his way back through the crowd, his hands full with glasses – so few got what they deserved from life.

‘“Use every man after his desert, and who should ‘scape whipping?”’ he said under his breath, and sat up straight, determined to do what he could to redeem the evening.


	8. Chapter 8

In all his years, DeBryn had never courted anyone. Perfectly understandable, all things considered, and he could hardly claim to be surprised. But he had never bought flowers, never arrived at a house with hair combed and shoes polished to take a lady out. Occasionally he wondered, a little wistfully, how things might have been had his preferences been different: whether he might have settled down with a nice girl, raised children, even grandchildren in the fullness of time. But despite his tendency to introspection he was above all practical; such things were as impossible as wishing for the moon, and such trains of thought were easily shrugged off.

He had likewise never been courted; the closest he had come to it had been Morse’s clear interest in him the previous summer and autumn. But then the whole point of courting was to persuade the recipient to look favourably upon the suitor and – DeBryn fairly blushed at the memory – he had never needed much persuasion when it came to Morse. Not when a mere hand on his knee and an apposite Shakespeare quote had sent him back into Morse’s arms.

Nevertheless, the few gifts he had received over the previous summer and autumn had made him uncomfortable, acutely aware of the likely difference in their salaries, and conscious that Morse shouldn’t spend what little he had on DeBryn. Until, devastatingly, DeBryn’s world had crumbled about his ears, and all gifts had stopped.

Now that he was once again the recipient of the fellow’s interest for the past two weeks... well, it was rather hard not to feel as though it had all been done before, and that the eventual outcome would be just the same.

Beside him Anthony shifted on his seat, and DeBryn guiltily dragged his mind back to their outing, the strains of Handel ringing among the rafters of Alfreda’s College chapel, and roused himself in time to join in with the applause as the piece ended, attentive as though he had spent the last ten minutes listening instead of woolgathering.

‘Well,’ Anthony said, as the musicians began to file out, and all about them people stood and began to make for the end of their rows. ‘I think the college bar is on the other side of the quad, and we’ve just time for a drink before the second half, if you like?’

DeBryn smiled at his friend. ‘So we do.’

Their first evening out, after that wretched conversation by the pub, had been awkward, with DeBryn fairly eaten up with residual guilt. The second had been little better, until Anthony had shoved a double measure of Scotch at him and said bluntly, ‘For Christ’s sake, Max, cheer up. It was only a suggestion, and I’d hoped we could stay friends, but if I’d wanted such sober company I’d have spent the evening at home and read some of that bloody Housman fellow you’re so fond of.’

This had raised a smile, and Anthony had added, ‘And if you don’t then I’ll have to find a new bridge partner and Lord knows none of the others will put up with me.’

They had something close to an established routine for such things now. Anthony would buy the drinks, waving away DeBryn’s money, insisting they were nothing more than recompense for the petrol DeBryn had spent to drive them there. They might discuss the concert, or possibly the other concert-goers, or their bridge group; Anthony’s sense of humour bordered on character assassination, and more than once during their bridge evenings DeBryn had had to bite his lip to smother laughter at Anthony’s sideways glance, or pointedly raised eyebrow.

On this evening Anthony handed DeBryn his drink and led the way to a quiet corner and, once there, he touched his whisky tumbler to DeBryn’s.

‘Cheers. Not a bad evening.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Better than that bloody awful play you wanted to go to last week.’

‘Well.’ DeBryn considered, before conceding, ‘Beckett isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.’

‘Not everyone’s cup of tea?’ Anthony made a face. ‘God, that’s three hours of my life I’m never going to see again.’

‘It’s one of the great pieces of twentieth-century theatre–’

‘One of the great pieces of bugger all happening–’

‘Oh hush,’ DeBryn said, but he was grinning. Apart from Morse, no-one else would bicker with him like this.

‘One day I’m going to make you come to watch the rugby with me.’ Anthony sighed reverently. ‘Now _there’s_ time well spent.’

‘Mmm.’ As DeBryn tried to think of a tactful way to evade such an invitation, Anthony grinned at his discomfiture.

‘Are they new?’

DeBryn followed Anthony’s gaze down to the cufflink just visible beneath the edge of his jacket, and touched it with a fingertip. ‘Oh. Er. Yes.’

It had been his birthday last week. Morse had been away, his presence required in Birmingham on an routine assignment that had had him fairly spitting with disdain; DeBryn hadn’t thought the date of his birthday had even registered with Morse in the first place, much less that he would have recalled it after so long, yet among the parcels from various family members had been an unlabelled package with a Birmingham postmark. There had been no note, no card enclosed, yet the instant DeBryn had seen them he had known who they must be from.

They were discreet, perhaps even rather plain. The choice of a man who wore no adornment himself and didn’t know how to choose it for others, yet DeBryn had loved them at once.

Now he touched a self-conscious fingertip to one of them as Anthony said, ‘They’re nice.’

It was a polite lie, even DeBryn could see that they weren’t much to look at, but it was a kind gesture and DeBryn smiled. ‘Thank you. A gift, from a friend.’

The next instant he could have kicked himself. What sort of fellow bought jewellery for another? Why hadn’t he invented an aunt? But Anthony merely smiled.

‘They reminded me of a pair I used to have. Also’ –Anthony glanced away– ‘from a friend, as it happens.’

DeBryn looked sharply at him, but Anthony was looking past him. ‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes.’ The lights of the bar seemed uncomfortably bright, and they gleamed off Anthony’s dark hair as he looked down at his glass of Scotch. ‘We used to be rather close, actually.’

The new knowledge aroused DeBryn’s curiosity. It was odd that such a man should be single, after all, when surely he could find companionship among Oxford’s queer set if he truly wanted it.

‘What happened?’

‘Oh.’ Anthony shrugged, darting a glance at DeBryn that was oddly indecipherable. ‘You know. A girl he was keen on. Or at least that his family were keen on. Marriage. We fell out of touch afterwards.’

Anthony took a drink of Scotch, but DeBryn held his silence. Platitudes were useless, and something about Anthony’s tone gave the impression there was more.

‘I never asked him not to,’ Anthony said quietly, looking down into his glass. He rocked it gently, tipping the amber liquid against the side. ‘I wonder now whether I had spoken out, tried to convince him we could make a go of things, move to London and be lost in the crowd, whether he might have...’ His mouth twisted in a sad smile. ‘But I never did, and he. Well. He never did have a strong will of his own, did James.’

DeBryn, his chest tight with compassion, quoted softly, ‘“But no, they will not, they must still wrest their neighbour to their will”.’

‘Housman again, I suppose,’ Anthony said, giving him a wry look.

But DeBryn couldn’t find a smile, not in the face of the same old heartbreak repeated down the years by countless men. ‘Yes.’

‘Make a go of things, Max,’ Anthony said, abruptly, looking hard at him. ‘Life’s too short to do otherwise.’

No need to tell him how precarious life was, he saw evidence of it every day, but DeBryn only nodded.

‘And yourself?’ he asked, sipping at his Scotch. ‘If you wanted to...’ He hesitated. This was unfamiliar territory, but such a confidence required reciprocal effort from him. ‘Do you think you might ever have another... friend?’

‘Ah. Well.’ DeBryn squinted in momentary confusion but there was no doubt of it, Anthony was flushing slightly. ‘I actually... That is, a cousin of mine got in touch with me a fortnight ago. A friend of hers has just moved to Oxford and she wanted to give him my number. You know. A new city, no friends, no-one to ring if you need help with anything, or lock yourself out.’

DeBryn nodded his understanding, suspicions forming.

‘And he rang to see if we could go for a pint,’ Anthony continued, glancing at DeBryn before gazing once again at his glass of Scotch. His ears reddened. ‘And he’s... well, he seems alright. Nice.’

‘I see.’ DeBryn smiled, his spirits lifting. ‘And is he...do you think he likes...’

No need to complete that sentence, not between the pair of them, and Anthony smiled faintly and murmured, ‘Yes. I think he is. Does.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ DeBryn said, meaning it with all his heart.

‘Thank you.’ Anthony shot him a wicked look. ‘But don’t think this gets you out of watching the rugby with me.’

‘Perish the thought,’ DeBryn said dryly, just as the interval bell rang.

\----------

The conversation stayed with him. It was easy enough to tell him to make a go of things, but what if such effort demanded sacrifices that were not his to make? Just because DeBryn’s nature was immutable that didn’t mean Morse’s was likewise; if DeBryn vanished from his life tomorrow, Morse would doubtless find a nice girl to settle down with. Someone to look after him, possible even raise his children, and at the thought of it, of a quiet child with Morse’s serious blue eyes, or his unruly red hair, DeBryn felt an odd, breathless ache in his chest.

His thoughts didn’t make for relaxing company, and he was still out of sorts the following afternoon, when Morse came to see him in the morgue.

‘Hello,’ he called, and DeBryn poked his head out from behind the partition wall in time to see Morse looking about himself nervously, and to see his face brighten at the sight of DeBryn.

‘Through here,’ DeBryn called, and watched Morse stride over to him. He answered the unspoken question. ‘We’re alone.’

‘Good.’ Morse drew near, smiling, his eyes darting uneasily down to see what DeBryn was doing, and visibly relaxing when he found him handling nothing more gruesome than a stack of toxicology reports.

Morse leaned a hip against the steel bench. ‘Thought I’d stop by on my way to the station.’

‘So I see.’ DeBryn’s mood had lifted at the sight of him, the louche tilt to his spine as he leaned against the bench. Morse’s gaze rested on DeBryn's mouth, and Morse glanced at the door before leaning in to claim a swift kiss. DeBryn bit his lip, smiling. ‘Hello to you too.’

‘How was the concert last night?’ Morse looked wistful. ‘I’m sorry I missed it, I’ve not heard Handel’s oratorios in ages.’

‘I see. In that case I shan’t tell you how marvellous it was.’ Morse sighed, and DeBryn asked, ‘How was your shift last night?’

‘Oh.’ Morse shrugged. ‘Dull. Long. Someone rang up reporting a prowler, but it turned out to be the next door neighbour’s dog.’

It was easy to imagine how disgusted Morse must have been, called out for nothing, and DeBryn hid a smile.

‘An odd thing happened this morning, though,’ Morse went on. ‘I was woken by a delivery.’

‘Oh yes?’ DeBryn looked down at his reports, beginning to sort them into alphabetical order. ‘For one of the neighbours, was it?’

‘No, actually.’ The weight of Morse’s gaze on the side of his face was almost tangible. ’For me. Flowers.’

‘Indeed?’ DeBryn said, staring down at his sheaf of folders and absently tucking Clarke, Michael behind Lexington, Georgiana before correcting his mistake. ‘It seems you’ve an admirer, then.’

‘Yes. It was a rather unusual composition, though.’ Morse curled his fingers around the edge of the bench. ‘Red roses, but also gardenias, and sweet william. So I went to the Bodleian this morning, to look up the Victorians.’

‘Indeed?’

‘According to them, sweet william symbolised gallantry. And gardenias, secret love.’

‘I see.’

‘Hyacinths too, for constancy. And a lily. One of the sort they use in funeral wreaths.’

His files were now well and truly in order, and DeBryn thumbed through them before selecting one at random.

‘I should have thought it would be bad luck to include such a thing in a bouquet.’

‘So would I,’ Morse said, the hint of a smile in his voice. ‘Unless perhaps the sender doesn’t believe in luck.’

‘Well at any rate it sounds a most peculiar collection of things to put in an arrangement.’

The folder he had selected was empty, and DeBryn closed it before removing his spectacles and polishing them intently.

‘I thought so.’ Morse scuffed the toe of a shoe idly against the tiled floor. ‘There was no signature. The card just said “Songs 5:16”.’

‘Indeed.’

‘You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?’

‘Certainly not,’ DeBryn said briskly, with a very credible sniff of impatience. He slid his glasses back onto his nose. ‘I’m surprised you would ask, I should have thought you had better things to do than waste both our time with such foolishness.’

Odd that such a rebuff should make the fellow look sleekly pleased as a cat, and he trailed after DeBryn when DeBryn scooped up his folders and made for his office.

‘I actually stopped by to ask if you’re free on Thursday evening?’

‘Let me see.’

The hairs on DeBryn’s nape tingled in awareness of Morse’s presence as he checked his shift rota in his pocket diary, and at last DeBryn looked up. ‘Yes. Did you want to try for the Purcell concert, since you missed last night’s?’

It wasn’t one of DeBryn’s favourites, but for the sake of an evening in Morse’s company he could sit through it.

‘No, actually. I thought perhaps dinner.’

‘I see.’ DeBryn pencilled a careful note in his diary, concealing his relief. His bank account was in a healthy state but concert tickets weren’t cheap. And the roses had been expensive, as roses always were, to say nothing of the gardenias. ‘At my house? Or your flat?’

‘Actually,’ Morse said slowly, and something in his voice made DeBryn look up, ‘I thought we might go out.’

DeBryn shut the book with a snap, his mood souring as suddenly as a summer storm.

‘If that’s intended as a joke then I consider it in rather poor taste,’ he said sharply.

Surprise wiped years from Morse’s face. ‘It’s not.’

DeBryn looked down and dropped the diary on his desk, unable to make himself open it to add anything further to that little note that was already far too revealing.

‘I wouldn’t.’ Morse had rallied in those few seconds and he stepped forward, close enough to rest a hand on DeBryn’s back. ‘Max. I wouldn’t, not about that.’

The assurance was small comfort against the reality – unable to go out for a romantic meal with the object of his affections – and DeBryn found no comfort in it.

‘Then I fail to see how you think we two can possibly–’

‘I’ve got an idea,’ Morse said quickly, cutting DeBryn off.

‘Which is?’

Morse’s chest brushed DeBryn’s arm as he drew breath to speak, and then hesitated.

‘It’s a secret,’ he said, after a pause. His hand skated lower on DeBryn’s spine, sliding around to his opposite hip in an awkward half-embrace. ‘Will you come?’

And it was with a distinct lack of grace that DeBryn sighed and muttered, ‘Oh, very well.’

\----------

On Thursday DeBryn took a report home with him with the firm intention of working on it, but after the fourth or fifth time he found himself crossing out an appallingly worded sentence he gave it up in disgust. At this rate he would end up having to rewrite the whole thing from scratch, and he abandoned it in favour of a recording of Bach and – when the nerves in his stomach grew unbearable – the merest splash of Scotch in the bottom of a tumbler.

They wouldn’t really be going out, of course. Morse may not have intended it as a joke but nor could he truly be serious, such a thing was quite patently impossible. So, dinner at one of their lodgings, then, and knowing Morse’s lack of interest in food DeBryn had quietly purchased the makings of a cold supper: a ham and egg pie, some ripe tomatoes and a fresh lettuce, a loaf of new bread.

A private meal at his house left scope for all sorts of intimacies and, fuelled by the Scotch sending warmth coursing through his veins, DeBryn’s imagination wandered.

There had been a distinct lack of any sort of physical intimacy over the past couple of weeks. Almost curiously so, given the climactic resumption of things; that evening Morse had gone after him like a man who had been on starvation rations for a very long time, and in the subsequent days DeBryn had expected... more.

Instead there had been lunches. And concerts. And once a theatre trip. All very enjoyable in their way, of course; DeBryn had not only missed Morse’s presence in his bed but also his intelligence, his opinions, the impatient purse of his lips if one of the violinists in the concert was a touch flat. DeBryn had rather assumed that resuming their joint outings would also mean the resumption of the physical side of things but so far Morse had been restrained.

Rather too much so, and DeBryn sighed regretfully and tossed back the last bit of Scotch before making his way upstairs to the shower, almost tripping over the cat as it followed him with tail held enquiringly aloft.

DeBryn had lost more time daydreaming than he had thought. Or possibly Morse was early, because DeBryn had barely finished dressing before the doorbell rang and he hurried downstairs in his stocking feet.

The door opened to show Morse with a faint smile of anticipation, his eyes fairly dancing. His pleasure was so infectious that it crushed DeBryn’s nascent demand to know where they were going and what Morse was playing at.

Instead Morse said, ‘Good evening,’ politely formal as though they hadn’t already seen each other that day, for the results of the Scott post-mortem, with Morse pawing restlessly through the fellow’s belongings as DeBryn tried to concentrate on explaining the findings to Thursday.

‘Hullo.’

Morse’s gaze flickered from DeBryn’s feet up to the damp tips of his uncombed hair and DeBryn very nearly blushed, feeling oddly caught out at grooming himself before their evening.

Morse stepped forwards and DeBryn stood back, holding the door open to let him enter, and as Morse passed DeBryn he lingered. The scent of his aftershave tickled DeBryn’s nostrils, making him dizzy with want, his mouth flushing wet with hunger.

‘Mmm.’ Morse hesitated and DeBryn realised with a thrill that Morse was scenting him in turn, inhaling the smell of his soap rising from newly cleaned skin. And that he seemed to be enjoying it.

Gently Morse took the edge of the front door out of DeBryn’s unresisting fingers and shut it. The tick of the hall clock seemed loud in the silence, as Morse drew close, and he tilted his face down hesitantly to brush an awkward kiss over DeBryn’s cheek.

It made DeBryn’s heart leap in his chest and his face turn towards Morse, and when their mouths bumped Morse sighed a little, pressing another kiss to the corner of DeBryn’s lips. DeBryn responded instinctively, returning Morse’s kiss and opening his lips slightly, enough for Morse to murmur and step closer, his kisses lingering and hungry.

Things might easily have progressed from there. Never mind the evening’s activities that Morse had planned; with Morse's scent in DeBryn's nose and his chest warm and strong against DeBryn’s, DeBryn would have been entirely happy to take the fellow upstairs and relearn all the contours of his body.

At last Morse drew back, licking his lips, and DeBryn sighed a little.

‘Evening,’ Morse said, looking faintly abashed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to’ –he ducked his head, pressing his nose and mouth to DeBryn’s temple and inhaling– ‘but you smell wonderful.’

DeBryn flushed deeply, warmth flooding up his throat and face to the roots of his hair, and down to melt into the desire in his stomach.

‘So do you,’ he managed weakly, and Morse smiled at him, pleased.

‘Come on, then. Get your shoes on.’

But Morse didn’t move away, and DeBryn stroked Morse’s waist and asked, ‘Any information as to where we’re going?’

‘None,’ Morse said, with a rare show of cheerfulness, and DeBryn hadn’t the heart to insist.

DeBryn turned away, sitting on the stars to tug on his shoes, and had laced the first before Morse said, ‘No.’

DeBryn looked up, startled, to see Morse looking at his shoes. ‘Not those. Your boots.’

Morse suited the action to the word, dumping DeBryn’s workday boots at his feet and DeBryn sat back, more puzzled than ever. ‘If you’re sure.’

‘Yes,’ said Morse, already turning away to paw through the bowl of loose change and keys DeBryn kept on his hall table. ‘Where are your– ah.’ He lifted the car keys out, folding them into his fist. ‘Can I drive?’

‘Of course, if you’re that keen to,’ DeBryn said, and Morse barely paused before opening the front door while DeBryn hastily laced his boots.

He was shrugging on his jacket – aware of the no doubt ridiculous figure he cut in his sturdy boots and smart jacket – when Morse retuned and immediately came to ease it back down his arms and off.

‘Not that. This.’

Morse held out his duffel coat and DeBryn pursed his lips in discomfiture. ’Morse, really, all this secrecy seems hardly necessary–’

‘Nearly done.’ Morse cocked his head engagingly, shaking the coat open for DeBryn to slide his arms into it, and DeBryn realised with a shock that he was being coddled, coaxed along like a fretful maiden aunt, and the thought was so horrifying he stopped his protests and complied. Let the fellow keep his secrets, if he was so desperate to.

It was a novel experience, sitting in the passenger seat of the little Morris, and DeBryn watched with a barely concealed smile as Morse folded his lanky frame behind the wheel, sliding the seat back on its runners. The smile vanished a few moments later, though, as Morse crunched the gears as he reversed out of the drive onto the road.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, glancing guiltily at DeBryn. ‘It handles a bit differently to the Jag.’

DeBryn raised his eyebrows, hovering between offended and amused. ‘Yes. The Home Office are rather more parsimonious in their vehicle allowances than OCP. Did you just insult my car?’

‘No, no,’ Morse demurred, but the corner of his mouth tilted up. ‘It’s very. Um. Serviceable.’

The cheek of the fellow. But DeBryn found himself smiling as he watched Morse pilot the Morris along the road, flicking the indicator on as he approached the end.

The journey wasn’t a long one yet to DeBryn, kept in the dark, it seemed interminable. He was unsurprised that Morse turned the car’s nose away from the centre of Oxford; a restaurant had never really been on the cards, but he found himself thoroughly disoriented when, some time later, Morse stopped on the edge of Wytham Woods.

‘Morse?’

Morse turned to face DeBryn, who tried to sound casually interested rather than thoroughly bewildered as he asked, ‘Where are we then?’

Morse ducked his head, his smile pure devilment. ‘We’re here.’

‘Yes, I can see that–’ DeBryn began but Morse was already out of the car, and DeBryn sighed and followed.

Morse had gone around to the boot of the car, popping the handle, and DeBryn was about to ask what possible need he had for the tyre iron or the jump leads when Morse extracted a picnic basket.

‘What...’ DeBryn fairly goggled, as though the chap had just produced a white dove from thin air. ‘How–’

‘Put it in while you were getting your boots on.’ Morse closed the boot without looking at DeBryn, his ears pinking. ‘Come on, then.’

Like a man in a dream, DeBryn followed Morse when he turned and began to walk through the woods, last year’s leaves crunching underfoot. When given time to himself he was more inclined to make for the river, yet the woods were rather lovely at this time of year. He couldn’t help but think of the animal they had so recently harboured, and he eyed the tight line of Morse’s shoulders and wondered how much of this was the fellow proving a point to himself.

They walked for several minutes until, quite unexpectedly, Morse turned aside, pushed through a screen of undergrowth, and emerged at the edge of the woods.

‘Oh.’ DeBryn blinked, taken aback at the view that had opened up before him.

The land around Oxford was notably flat but they had climbed slowly as they drove, and now DeBryn looked out across a sweep of countryside. They stood on the edge of a meadow, the summer hay not yet cut, the long grass studded with scarlet poppies, blue cornflowers, and oxeye daisies, with a scattering of golden buttercups and heartease. Away to his left the sun sat low on the horizon, the sky tinted orange and pink and gold, while away to the right the horizon was turning a deeper blue.

There was no sound except the birds in the woods behind them, settling for the night, and the breeze stirring the leaves in the trees, and whispering through the meadow at their feet. They might have been the last two living souls in the world.

‘What do you think?’

Unnoticed, Morse had set down the basket and now drew near. ‘I found it while we were all up here last month, when the farmers organised that hunt for the tiger. Hidden behind the trees like that I nearly missed it, save that I started a rabbit and thought it odd that there should be one in the middle of the forest, with no grazing nearby.’

Not such a city lad, for all his professed ignorance of nature, and DeBryn said quietly, ‘It’s lovely.’

Morse smiled, pleased at DeBryn’s approval. ‘I thought it might be a pleasant place to bring a bottle one evening.’

‘And quiet,’ Morse added, whether reading DeBryn’s mind or assuaging his own fears DeBryn was unsure. ‘We’ll not be bothered.’

DeBryn could almost have wished he hadn’t been quite so attentive to his worries; the comment reminded him of all the ways in which this could go wrong, should anyone see them out together.

But Morse had moved away to lift a rug out of the basket, shaking it out and spreading it over the grass, and DeBryn held his tongue and moved to help.

He had thought of everything, it seemed, even down to the bottle of wine and two glasses carefully wrapped in a tea towel, and DeBryn watched him uncork the bottle and pour, taking the glass Morse held out to him.

‘Cheers.’ Morse touched his glass to DeBryn’s lightly. ‘I did promise you dinner out.’

DeBryn bit his lip, his heart skipping breathlessly. ‘So you did.’

Abruptly he couldn’t look at Morse and turned away, ostensibly admiring the view, while he collected himself. DeBryn would have bet money on Morse having neither the patience nor the interest to prepare something so elaborate, and DeBryn cradled his wineglass between his palms, suddenly shy.

‘Thank you,’ he faltered, ‘for... for. Well. All this.’

Contrary as a cat, Morse bristled slightly. ‘I may not be much of a cook but I know how to put together a picnic, at least.’

‘Yes.’ DeBryn sipped his wine. ‘Yes, of course you do.’

Perhaps his discomfiture showed, for Morse stretched over to brush his fingers across the back of DeBryn’s hand, making DeBryn flinch nervously, glancing over his shoulder.

‘I told you,’ Morse said, ‘we’ll not be disturbed.’

But he took his hand away all the same.

For the first quarter-hour DeBryn felt awkward. Clumsy-fingered, and inept, unsure how to respond to being invited out like this; he felt almost like a young lady Morse was trying to court, and the sensation was not particularly enjoyable.

But then Morse commented on a recently published collection of Auden’s poems, calling the choices trite and obvious, and DeBryn was so stung by this calumny of one of his pet favourites that he responded indignantly, and it was only much, much later that he realised perhaps Morse had picked the argument deliberately.

It was only Morse, after all, and DeBryn gradually unwound enough to chat easily, telling Morse a story from his undergraduate days and watching the setting sun gleam in his hair as Morse gave one of his rare grins.

DeBryn was doing admirably, in fact, and when Morse shifted closer – close enough for their knees to brush – DeBryn feigned not to notice and carried on talking even as desire woke low in his stomach. Morse’s long fingers curled around his glass of wine, his other plucking idly at a blade of grass as he listened to DeBryn talk. His long legs were curled under him, sitting cross-legged, and he cocked his head and paid DeBryn such close attention that DeBryn had to look away, averting his eyes from that blue gaze before it rendered him tongue-tied as a nervous adolescent.

Morse stretched, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, and now his knee rested warmly against DeBryn’s. The same knee that, in the past, had pressed and slid between both of his, tangled together in the sheets, and DeBryn flushed as the memories rose unbidden to torment him with remembered desire and satiation.

‘And so... you see... that was that,’ DeBryn finished weakly, unable to recall the point he had been trying to make.

‘Hmm.’ It was some consolation to hear Morse sounding just as distracted, and DeBryn watched in breathless, aching anticipation as Morse’s hand beat a restless tattoo on his thigh before inching along his leg to brush his fingertips, as if by accident, against the inside of DeBryn’s knee.

A sharp rustle in the undergrowth sent DeBryn almost falling backwards in his haste to put a respectable distance between himself and Morse. He stared at the screen of trees, expecting a dog walker or rambler to appear, the necessity for explanations as to what the pair of them were doing here.

A bare moment later a deer stepped out of the undergrowth, ears twitching, and walked off, and DeBryn sagged with relief. He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘This has been lovely. But perhaps we ought to...’

He tilted his head in approximately the direction of the car but, mulishly, Morse shook his head, face darkening.

‘Morse,’ DeBryn tried again, ‘you don’t think we might find ourselves in a bit of a fix if someone–’

‘ _No_ ,’ Morse said, a shade too loudly, and DeBryn fell silent.

A moment later Morse sighed and shifted, his knee pressing against DeBryn’s in a manner DeBryn could very nearly believe accidental.

‘No,’ he said, more quietly. ‘Look, I wasn’t going to say but I thought... oh, here.’

With no more than that Morse thrust his wineglass at DeBryn and leaned away, reaching for the picnic basket. ‘I brought these.’

He withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle, and DeBryn watched him gently unfold it to reveal something that made DeBryn blink, confused.

‘Binoculars?’

‘Yes.’ Morse looked at DeBryn, his expression oddly indecipherable. ‘I thought we could be stargazing.’

He set a couple of books down on the blanket next to the binoculars, and DeBryn didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All this subterfuge, just to enjoy a drink and a shared sunset.

‘Alright?’ Morse was still looking at him, and he set the books aside and resettled himself close by DeBryn once more. ‘I just wanted to spend time with you. Drink a bottle of wine, and admire the view.’

Morse’s shoulder pressed warm and strong against DeBryn’s and DeBryn forced himself to nod and murmur, ‘Alright.’

He didn’t trust himself to say more, but Morse seemed content to sit beside him and drink his wine, while DeBryn took comfort in the reassuring warmth along his right side.

After a pause, long enough for the sun to touch the horizon, Morse said idly, ‘Besides, you must know some constellations.’

DeBryn eyed him curiously. 

‘A few,’ he admitted. ‘Dare I ask what makes you so sure?’

‘Oh you know.’ Morse gave an odd little one-shouldered shrug. ‘You like... fishing, and walking, and so on.’

‘For which you imagine there is a great need for nocturnal navigation?’ DeBryn asked, dry as dust, but the next instant he relented. ‘I learned some as a child. One of my older brothers saved up and bought himself a telescope.’

He slanted a glance at Morse, looking out unawares across the meadow, and ventured, ‘You never...’

DeBryn trailed off. Morse’s childhood didn’t seem to have been a particularly happy one, and Morse glanced curiously at him before his face tightened.

‘No. My father wasn’t...’

He trailed off, and DeBryn was left to complete that sentence to himself as best he could. Wasn’t interested? Wasn’t approving of such scholarly pursuits?

‘Used to take me out on the common after rabbits, though,’ Morse said, looking down into the last inch of wine in his glass.

‘Oh yes?’ It was like coaxing a wild creature closer, like the first few times the cat had mustered the courage to sit on his lap in the evenings, when simply reaching for it was enough to send it fleeing.

‘Mmm.’ Morse still wasn’t looking at him, tilting his glass meditatively back and forth. ‘Bought me a pistol, the first Christmas after my mother’ –he hesitated minutely– ‘after I went to live with him.’

DeBryn did some rapid mental arithmetic.

‘I see,’ he said, trying not to betray how appalled he was.

A twelve-year-old child, newly bereft of his mother; a rather sensitive child, if the grown man was any clue, being taught to kill frightened rabbits. Their soft fur and twitching noses, and the flopping weight of their corpses. The dreadful scream they gave when injured, and the horrible tattered mess that a pistol shot could make of a small animal’s body. How had Morse coped with that, given his squeamishness for blood and gore?

DeBryn himself had lost his father at a young age, and yet somehow it was harsher to imagine a young Morse forced to grow up so quickly.

‘Still.’ Morse twitched slightly, a sleeper emerging from a dream, and gave DeBryn a smile that looked very nearly like his usual. ‘Perhaps you can tell me some of them.’

‘Of course,’ DeBryn said, trying not to break this sudden intimacy that had Morse offering up details of his childhood unasked, and in the twilight Morse’s smile was a mere flash of teeth.

DeBryn expected a kiss. Nothing could have been easier at that moment, and for a moment DeBryn readied himself for Morse to lean in, to tilt his head. But instead Morse looked away, reaching for the wine and refilling their glasses.

‘I’ve put in for my sergeant’s exam,’ Morse said, recorking the bottle and setting it aside.

Another confidence, offered unasked; DeBryn had no doubt he was the first among Morse’s colleagues or friends to hear this.

‘You’ve definitely decided against academia, then.’ It gave DeBryn an odd little pang, to think he would never see that side of Morse. The absent-minded scholar, his mind lost among his books.

‘Yes.’ Morse chewed a thumbnail pensively. ‘Someone once told me, years ago, that the world is long on academics but short on good detectives. So I thought I would stay where I could do most good.’ He shifted, glancing at DeBryn. ‘Alright?’

DeBryn blinked, confused, because with that tilt to his eyebrows and that inflection in his voice it sounded almost as though...

‘Are you asking me?’ he said at last, unable to keep the surprise from his tone.

‘Well.’ Morse looked away, lashes dropping to veil his gaze, and DeBryn immediately wanted its return. ‘When I thought about giving it up, last year. You seemed... pleased.’

The reference to last year was unexpected, and DeBryn breathed deeply against the fluttering ache in his chest.

‘I seemed pleased because _you_ seemed pleased,’ he told Morse. And then, in a burst of honesty, he said what he should have told the fellow back then: ‘I don’t actually care that you’re a police officer, you know.’ Morse looked at him sharply, and DeBryn finished: ‘I just want you to be happy.’

Morse’s face softened into a smile. ‘I am.’

And DeBryn’s heart lifted at the unguarded happiness on his face.

Morse hadn’t repeated his startling announcement of last month. Perhaps he was obeying DeBryn’s order not to mention it, although he had shown little regard for DeBryn’s orders before. Perhaps – DeBryn’s light-hearted mood soured a little – it had been an impulsive thing, born of the stress of the moment.

For DeBryn there was increasing certainty of his feelings towards the fellow. On some level he had never really talked himself out of love with Morse: his soft heart, his beautiful face, his stubborn streak that drove him to take on the world. The words rose to his lips; it would have been the easiest thing in the world to let them escape, but DeBryn nipped his lip. Best not give voice to it, for words once spoken couldn’t be recalled, and he swallowed hard and took a gulp of wine.

‘What’s that one, then?’

Morse pointed to a bright point low on the horizon, shuffling closer until his shoulder tucked warmly behind DeBryn’s.

‘The evening star, I believe. Venus,’ DeBryn said. Morse made an interested noise and DeBryn allowed himself to lean subtly against Morse’s strong shoulder.

When Morse spoke his breath was a warm flutter against DeBryn’s cheek. ‘Hesperus.’

DeBryn swallowed heavily. Hesperus, sacred to lovers. ‘Indeed.’

‘Scorpius’ tail is just there.’ DeBryn set aside his wine glasss and pointed, tracing the curl of stars. ‘And his body there. And his claws.’ He followed a pale wash across the sky. ‘And that’s the Milky Way.’

‘And how does one find the north star?’

With Morse leaning into his side DeBryn shifted, turning towards him. His hand settled on top of Morse’s, and as Morse’s fingers gently curled between his the heady warmth flushing through him had nothing to do with the wine he had drunk.

‘Well, you see the Plough.’ DeBryn sketched it with his finger, and Morse’s hum of acknowledgement, straight into his ear, made him draw a deep breath.

Arousal was singing through his veins: the warmth of Morse pressed close against him, the scent of his aftershave, the secure twine of his fingers through DeBryn’s that prompted all sorts of filthy thoughts.

He swallowed hard, his hand trembling slightly as he moved it. ‘Then you see the two stars there, at the right-hand side.’

‘Max.’ A mere breath against his cheek, but enough to set his heart pounding wildly at the unmistakable intent behind it.

‘You follow them upwards, you see,’ he murmured, voice weakening along with his resolve, ‘until you find... er, you find...’

‘Max.’

Morse’s lips brushed his cheek this time, and DeBryn gave up any pretence of interest in astronomy and turned his head to meet Morse’s lips with his own.

His mouth was soft, his lips already parted. His kiss was gentle and DeBryn raised his free hand to cup the fellow’s jaw, sliding his hand back to sink his fingers into the warm tangle of hair. He kissed his way into Morse’s pleased little murmur; pressing his mouth open further for DeBryn to slide his tongue to brush fleetingly against Morse’s own.

‘Hmm.’ Morse drew back slightly, and in the darkness DeBryn could just make out the flash of him licking his lips. ‘Have you ever done it outside?’

Morse’s free hand had crept up to toy with DeBryn’s shirt buttons and DeBryn blinked, distracted by the small tugs at the fabric. ‘Done what?’

‘You know what.’ Morse’s voice was low, amused.

‘Oh.’ DeBryn bit his lip. How naive of him to be embarrassed at such a question from his lover. His thoughts went immediately to Godstow, the interior of the concrete building no warmer than the temperature outside. ‘Are you counting times out at–’

‘No.’ Morse’s tone spoke volumes of his opinion of the place.

‘Then... no.’ DeBryn had a fair idea where this was going and he tried to sound warning, reproving, but to no avail. 

‘Lie down,’ Morse suggested.

DeBryn’s heart raced, and he clutched Morse’s jacket with trembling fingers when Morse pressed closer.

‘Morse...’ He tried to steady his voice, to sound reasonable. ‘We oughtn’t. If someone comes, if they see us–’

‘Alright.’ Morse pushed a hand inside DeBryn’s overcoat, gentling his palm along DeBryn’s side as though DeBryn were skittish horse. ‘Just this, then.’

But ‘just this’ was already a heady experience, a dizzying surfeit to a man who had gone without for more than two weeks now, ever since that fevered evening and night after Crevecoeur, and DeBryn kissed Morse with increasing fervour, licking at his mouth and pressing close to him, running his hand over the firm chest and shoulders pressed against him. His body was responding: the teasing brush of Morse’s tongue against his own making his breath come short, and the clutch of Morse’s hand on his shoulder, his chest, making his cock stir.

‘Mmm.’ Morse sighed, breaking away from DeBryn’s mouth to duck down and nuzzle under his jaw. ‘You smell delicious.’

‘Oh Christ,’ DeBryn groaned even as he tilted his head to offer his neck up to Morse’s kisses, half-amused, half-frustrated. ‘You chose a bloody fine time to start this.’

‘What?’ Morse lifted his head, confused.

‘Ever since that evening after Crevecoeur you’ve been... well, you’ve not exactly been keen to–’

‘I wanted you to know.’ Morse’s hard kiss stung his mouth. ‘That I want you for all things, not just for this.’

DeBryn kissed him back, biting hungrily at his mouth, until Morse ducked his head to open DeBryn’s collar and kiss his throat. DeBryn gasped, his vision blurring at the soft warmth of Morse’s mouth on his neck, desire clenching low in his stomach, and when Morse came back up to kiss his mouth, DeBryn abandoned his good sense and let himself sink backwards onto the blanket, gripping Morse’s shirtfront to pull him down.

Morse followed, settling his warm chest against DeBryn’s, seeking his mouth for more kisses, and DeBryn wrapped his arms around him and kissed him heatedly, pulling him close. Morse braced himself up on his elbows, leaning over DeBryn to kiss his lips, his chin, his cheeks, and DeBryn gasped when Morse stopped, pulling back slightly.

‘Here,’ he murmured, his breath tickling DeBryn’s damp, sensitive lips. Delicately, he lifted DeBryn’s glasses from his nose; the faint stars overhead vanished, but the lines of Morse’s face, so close, remained wonderfully clear.

DeBryn blinked, newly vulnerable without them, and Morse folded the legs gently and placed them at the edge of the blanket.

It was more comfortable without them, he couldn’t deny it. Morse leaned back down for more kisses and DeBryn met him eagerly, clutching greedy handfuls of Morse’s soft hair and opening his mouth under the insistent press of Morse’s lips.

Morse’s kisses were enough to heat his blood, and DeBryn kissed him back hungrily, heedless of the cold ground at his back, the sharp press of a stone into his shoulder blade. But when Morse shivered slightly DeBryn ran a hand down his side, breaking away from Morse’s kisses to peer at him.

‘You’re cold.’

‘No I’m not.’ Morse dipped his chin, trying to catch DeBryn’s mouth for another kiss, but DeBryn caught hold of his fingers and tutted at their chill.

‘Here.’ DeBryn struggled to sit up, pushing gently at Morse’s chest when he curled close, trying mutely to press DeBryn back down onto the blanket. ‘Let me up.’

‘It’s nothing, I’m fine,’ Morse protested, but DeBryn sat up and reached behind himself to tug at the sleeves of his overcoat.

‘Here.’ He shrugged out of his coat and draped it around Morse’s shoulders, gripping the lapels to tug Morse close enough to kiss, and Morse made a pleased noise and pressed DeBryn back down onto the blanket.

It was rather reminiscent, in all honesty, of lying in bed with him last year, the pair of them curled under the covers, kissing as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist, and apparently he wasn’t the only one who felt so for Morse – far from showing sensible discretion appropriate to a public space – let his hands wander low over DeBryn’s chest and stomach. He slid his fingers between DeBryn’s shirt buttons to stroke his chest, and DeBryn sucked in a deep breath at the delicate play of cool fingertips across his skin.

‘Morse,’ he said, trying to sound reasonable as Morse opened a further button on his shirt. ‘Hadn’t we much better return to the car and make for my house.’

But Morse made a disagreeing noise, sliding a hand inside his shirt, and DeBryn leaned into his touch, his body silently begging.

His own hands had wandered down Morse’s back to pluck his shirt tails out of his trousers, and he traced his fingers over the silky hollow of Morse’s spine as Morse pressed hungrily against him.

The first tug at his belt made DeBryn catch his breath, suddenly dizzy at the prospect. But Morse, at the last minute, paused. His hand traced lightly over DeBryn’s trouserfront, rubbing gently at DeBryn’s arousal.

‘Can I?’ he murmured, bending to breath the words into DeBryn’s ear, while DeBryn gasped and his hands tightened on Morse’s back.

‘We shouldn’t,’ DeBryn protested, but it was a feeble thing when set against his hips pushing upwards into Morse’s touch.

‘I know.’ Morse kissed him firmly and DeBryn gripped Morse’s nape, almost biting at Morse’s soft mouth. ‘Can I, though?’

In reply DeBryn reached down to open his belt, and Morse pressed a fierce kiss to DeBryn’s mouth before pushing his hands away to do the job himself.

The first touch to the sensitive tip of his cock made him bite his lip, smothering his moan. Thank goodness Morse seemed in no mood to tease or take things slowly, though: he spread the front of DeBryn’s trousers open before pulling away to lick across his fingers and curl them around DeBryn’s erection.

He pulled at DeBryn slowly, almost lazily, and DeBryn shut his eyes tightly as his face burned. But Morse sped his hand until he was stroking firmly along DeBryn’s length, until DeBryn had to bite down on his lip to muffle himself.

‘God,’ Morse muttered, low and breathless, and when DeBryn tightened his damp palms on Morse’s lean waist Morse surged forwards to kiss him again, pressing a knee between DeBryn’s as he nipped greedily at DeBryn’s mouth.

It was an unbearably erotic combination: Morse’s hand on him, Morse’s tongue in his mouth as he claimed kiss after kiss, the need for silence as great as the urge to moan, to push his hips up into Morse’s strokes. Morse seemed just as keen as DeBryn, for he set up a swift, insistent rhythm and DeBryn pressed his face to Morse’s throat and panted dizzily. His stomach muscles fluttered, his thrusts into Morse’s slick hand growing clumsy as pleasure gripped the base of his spine.

Morse cupped DeBryn’s nape with his free hand as DeBryn pawed clumsily at his hips, hands trembling with the need to finish. Morse nudged his lips to DeBryn’s ear.

‘Tell me,’ he muttered, and a jolt of lust speared DeBryn at the warm tickle of breath. ‘When you’re close. Tell me.’

‘Now,’ DeBryn gritted out at once, his voice cracking, ecstasy sparking deep in his groin, ‘oh God, now, I’m–’

He cut himself off with a gasp as Morse moved swiftly, sliding down his body, and DeBryn chewed frantically at his lip at the soft brush of hair low against his stomach, the tops of his thighs, and then the warmth of Morse’s mouth on him. DeBryn dug his heels into the ground and crammed his fist between his teeth, fighting his body’s impulse to cry out, to push up into soft heat. He sucked in a gulping breath, and brushed a shaking hand over Morse’s hair before gripping a fold of the blanket beneath him and coming in a shuddering rush.

Morse stayed with him through it, one hand griping DeBryn’s thigh, the other curled tightly around the base of his cock, until DeBryn sank back to the blanket with a shaky sigh. Morse leaned up; in the darkness, and without his glasses, it was nevertheless possible to make out the edge of his satisfied grin and DeBryn caught a fold of Morse’s sleeve and pulled, urging him close enough to kiss.

Morse went willingly, and DeBryn sleeked a hand along his side and down over his hips, to find the bulge between his legs, and Morse shuddered when DeBryn rubbed the heel of his palm over it. He was perfectly silent, however, and remained so as DeBryn slid down the blankets, shivering a little at the cool night air on his bare chest, and worked Morse’s trousers open. Morse made no move to help but his thighs twitched wider to give DeBryn space, and his breath was audible in the still night, and DeBryn drew his cock out and took it into his mouth.

It didn’t take long. Morse must already be aching for it, for he gave a low, choked-off groan as DeBryn bobbed his head and began to suck him. The taste of him was already salt-sharp on DeBryn’s tongue, and in a very little time he was arching under DeBryn, his hands restless on DeBryn’s face, his hair and DeBryn swallowed and made a quietly encouraging noise, and then had to swallow again as Morse’s hips surged upwards, pulsing against DeBryn’s tongue.

Afterwards DeBryn crawled back up the blanket and Morse turned to him at once, sliding his arms about DeBryn’s waist and pressing clumsy kisses to his neck, his jaw, until he reached DeBryn’s mouth.

DeBryn kissed him, letting Morse find his own taste in DeBryn’s mouth and reached for his own opened shirt. With passion spent, it was a chilly evening to be lying about bare-chested, no matter how much he might love the sensation of Morse’s shirt against his own naked skin.

Morse made no protest. In fact he helped, kissing DeBryn’s cheek softly as he pushed shirt buttons through their holes, and when DeBryn was finished Morse reached for the discarded overcoat and pulled it over DeBryn’s shoulders.

When they were both decently clothed Morse rolled onto his back, and DeBryn stretched out an arm for Morse to rest his head on. He felt dangerously content, as though this were the sort of thing he could grow used to, and he closed his eyes, caught between a quiet joy and fear.

Warm against his side, Morse stirred, and when he spoke his voice was lazy. ‘“By day my limbs, by night my mind, for thee, and for myself, no quiet find”.’

A gentle wash of affection made DeBryn smile. The chap was the least likely police officer DeBryn had ever met, with his poetry-quoting habits, his Latin and his Greek.

_I love you_. The words rose to his lips but DeBryn bit them back. It was too soon, still; he hadn’t yet found his footing after the sudden renewal of Morse’s interest.

Instead he silked a lock of Morse’s hair through his fingers and, prompted by the scents of the summer day lingering on Morse’s skin and in his hair, he murmured, ‘“I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent summer morning; you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turned over upon me”.’ He turned his head to press his nose and mouth to Morse’s hair and inhale. ‘“And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my barestript heart”.’

‘Hmm.’ Morse stirred against him, lifting a hand to catch hold of DeBryn’s to lace their fingers together and squeeze lightly. The next instant the velvet softness of his lips brushed a kiss across the backs of DeBryn’s fingers.

He yawned, suddenly, and DeBryn tugged at his hand. His back was beginning to protest the hard ground, when there was a comfortable bed to be had elsewhere.

‘Come on.’ DeBryn nudged Morse gently. ‘Let’s go home.’


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Coda.

The crockery rattled lightly on the tray as DeBryn carried it through into the hall, careful not to tread on the cat as it bounded ahead of him. Its fur gleamed copper as it crossed the shafts of morning light streaming through the windows of the front door and it trotted quickly upstairs, as though afraid DeBryn would change his mind.

DeBryn followed at a more sedate pace, his bare feet soundless on the carpet, until he reached the top of the stairs and nudged open the door to the master bedroom.

Once upon a time his breakfasts had been solitary things, sometimes with the newspaper or radio for company but more often than not they had been devoured while standing over the sink, a piece of toast quickly eaten, his tea gulped down. They had been swift and efficient affairs; infinitely more so than loading the meal onto a tray and carrying it carefully back upstairs.

He didn’t miss them. For in the bedroom Morse was stirring in his loose sprawl across the bed, the muscles in his back shifting as he lifted a hand and turned his head to rub at his eyes. The sheets were rucked down around his hips, his thighs parted, and DeBryn’s gaze traced the elegant curl of his spine and the delicate arches of his ribs as the cat jumped onto the bed and announced its arrival with a meow.

‘Hello.’ Morse reached down to pat it vaguely. ‘How did you get up here?’

He turned his head further, catching sight of DeBryn, and at once gave a soft smile that set DeBryn’s heart swooping.

‘Morning,’ DeBryn murmured, shy as he balanced a corner of the tray on Morse’s bedside table and tried to clear a space among the accumulated books.

‘Morning.’ Morse cut the Gordian knot by scooping them all onto the bed and, once DeBryn had set the tray down safely, Morse caught a fold of DeBryn’s dressing gown to pull him down to sit on the edge of the bed.

DeBryn went at once, obedient, and leaned down to kiss Morse as he reclined, propped up on an elbow with the books scattered next to him.

‘What’s this?’ Morse glanced at the tray. ‘Breakfast in bed? You’re spoiling me.’

‘Well it’s an important day.’ Drawn back in by the affectionate tilt to Morse’s lips, DeBryn kissed his cheek, warm with sleep. ‘Can’t send you off on an empty stomach.’

‘Hmm.’

As DeBryn got up and went around to his side of the bed Morse poked at the contents of the tray, and by the time he had shrugged off his dressing gown and climbed back in Morse had propped himself up against the headboard and was offering DeBryn a cup of tea.

‘Thank you.’

Bare-chested like that, Morse’s collar bones were two graceful sweeps that DeBryn wanted to press his mouth to. _Had_ pressed his mouth to, in fact, just the previous night, when he had pushed Morse down and climbed between his legs to take both of them into his slick fist, while Morse gripped his arse and moaned encouragement.

Desire woke, simmering under his skin and his cock growing heavy, thickening. DeBryn raised his knees to disguise the bulge in the blankets lying across his lap. They didn’t have time for that this morning, not if he wanted Morse to eat breakfast before leaving, and he took a mouthful of hot tea and thought wryly of bromide.

‘There’s toast there too.’ And the best of the strawberries from the garden, picked hurriedly into a teacup and still cold with dew.

‘I saw.’ But instead of reaching for any of it, Morse leaned over to kiss DeBryn’s bare shoulder and DeBryn closed his eyes briefly at the warm press of lips, the gentle scuff of a night’s beard growth, the tickle of Morse’s hair falling over his forehead. ‘Thank you. For this.’

‘You’re welcome.’ DeBryn turned his face and Morse’s lips met his gently, speaking of desire temporarily sated and a quiet affection, and DeBryn was left tongue-tied at his own feelings for the chap before his nature reasserted itself. ‘Besides, I know your attitude to breakfast by now. If I want to have any hope of getting you to eat some then the mountain, it seems, had better come to Mohammed.’

Morse grinned, reached out a long arm to hook the plate of toast into his lap, and held up a buttered slice to DeBryn. ‘Here.’

DeBryn took a bite, and had the satisfaction of seeing Morse eat with interest, his shoulder leaning companionably against DeBryn’s.

‘How do you feel about it?’ DeBryn asked. One of the books scattered next to Morse was his Fitton’s. He had become rather a fixture in DeBryn's opposite armchair the past few weeks, determinedly working his way through it.

‘Alright.’ Morse shrugged, offering the slice of toast to DeBryn for another bite. ‘It all seems pretty straightforward.’

DeBryn chewed and made no reply. After a Classics degree, and two years cracking CID cases, then doubtless a detective sergeant’s exam posed no real challenge.

‘Actually, do you mind if I take the paper today?’

‘Of course not.’ DeBryn swallowed and looked quizzically at Morse. ‘Take it, if you want it. For lunch?’

‘Mm.’ Morse picked up another slice of toast, examining it, and DeBryn narrowed his eyes. 

‘You’re not... you can’t be planning to do the crossword in there.’

‘Well, I just thought if I finish early... the practice papers I’ve seen haven’t taken anything like the time they give you.’ Morse scratched his chest absently, glanced at DeBryn. ‘It’s only the crossword,’ he said, misreading DeBryn’s look. ‘It’s not against the rules, is it?’

‘I shouldn’t have thought there was anything forbidding it, no,’ DeBryn said, smiling a little at the sheer preposterousness of the man , the miraculous fact of him here, in DeBryn’s bed, doing something as mundane as eating toast while his bare thigh lay against DeBryn’s and conjured memories of the previous night.

Morse stirred. ‘There’s a concert at Baidley College this evening. I wondered whether you wanted to go?’

‘I can’t, I’m afraid. Late shift at the hospital.’

‘Oh.’

DeBryn sipped his tea. ‘You’re still welcome to come round afterwards, though, if you like.’

Having seen Morse’s current digs it was no surprise when Morse perked up at the offer. ‘Could I?’

‘Of course.’ Morse held out the teacup of strawberries and DeBryn took one, adding, ‘You have your keys.’

He had left them by Morse’s breakfast plate last Wednesday; Morse had made no comment but his step that day had been lighter and his smile came more readily.

‘Hmm.’ Morse seemed content as the cat at their feet, cradling his teacup and leaning into DeBryn, and DeBryn closed his eyes, trying to preserve the memory of a rare moment of perfect happiness.

\----------

DeBryn had once thought he would develop a positively Pavlovian reaction to the sound of his own doorbell, so often had Morse come round with a single purpose in mind. These days he had no need to ring the bell, not when he had his own key; DeBryn rather missed the flutter of anticipation in his stomach, but the arrangement had its advantages. Such as now, when he leaned over the dining room table, absorbed in sorting the papers he had brought home and spread out, and felt hands settle on his hips and warm lips on his nape.

‘Hullo.’ Morse’s nose was a cool point of pressure against his skin; a contrast to the warmth of his breath. He peered over DeBryn’s shoulder. ‘What’s that?’

‘A head start on the monthly report data.’ DeBryn straightened up, and Morse’s chest settled firm against his shoulder blades.

‘Hmm.’ Morse’s lips brushed the side of his throat, ending up on the sensitive skin just below his ear, and DeBryn’s head tilted without conscious thought, offering his throat to Morse’s caress. When Morse’s hand crept round to rest on his belt buckle, DeBryn’s breath grew short. ‘Can it wait?’

‘Of course.’

Sex last night, lingering kisses this morning by the front door that had very nearly turned into more, and now this tonight. Presumably the spark between them wouldn’t always burn this hot, this urgent. It couldn’t possibly, it would burn him up from inside, devour him and reduce him to ash, but he couldn’t imagine a better end.

Morse’s hands firmed on his waist, drawing him away from the table, and holding him steady when DeBryn stumbled, guiding him and turning him to press him back against the wall.

‘How was the concert?’ DeBryn managed, as Morse’s lips brushed his temple, his cheek.

‘Lovely.’ Morse’s face softened in a smile, remembering, and DeBryn cupped Morse’s face in his hands and stroked his thumb over Morse’s cheek. ‘Debussy. Ravel.’

‘I’m sorry I missed it.’ Sorry too that he had missed the chance to subtly watch Morse appreciate it: the tilt of his head as he listened, the half-smile as the music lulled him. ‘Duty called.’

‘Mm.’ Morse turned his head to kiss DeBryn’s fingers before leaning in; DeBryn lifted his chin eagerly but Morse veered away, biting lightly at his jaw and tucking a knee between DeBryn’s own.

The promise of sex curled warmly about them, wrapping them in a cocoon that shut out the world, and DeBryn pushed his hands under Morse’s jacket to palm his waist.

‘I’ve a bone to pick with you, though.’

The words warmed the skin of his throat, and DeBryn’s eyebrows raised. ‘With me?’

‘Yes.’ Morse pressed closer, chest to chest, and curled a hand around DeBryn’s nape. ‘You were teasing me, earlier.’

‘Hmm.’ DeBryn’s hands slid down, lifting the back of Morse’s jacket and fastening onto his belt. ‘I’ve no idea what you could possibly be talking about.’

A flagrant lie, and when Morse huffed and squeezed his nape in mock reproof DeBryn only smiled, his heart giddy.

‘ _Nature studies_ ,’ Morse muttered into his ear. ‘Honestly.’

DeBryn closed his eyes, nascent laughter mingling with the heady surge of desire for the man in his arms, kissing DeBryn’s throat and stroking his wrists with an eagerness that let him know his desire was very much reciprocated.

‘Well really,’ he said, trying for his driest tone. ‘The word you were looking for was pornography, Thomas–’

‘But–’

‘–and I couldn’t resist the temptation to see if I could make you say it.’ DeBryn gripped Morse’s shoulder and eased him back, just far enough for DeBryn to look at him, drinking in the sight of him in his evening suit the way he hadn’t dared to in front of Thursday and Strange. ‘With you looking...’

Morse watched him, eyes intent and his caressing hands making all sort of filthy promises. ‘Yes?’

‘Good enough to eat,’ DeBryn breathed, catching hold of Morse’s chin to finally press his mouth to Morse’s lips.

It was like a match to kindling: Morse’s mouth opened at once and DeBryn licked briefly at his lower lip before pressing inside. Morse leaned into him, his hands squeezing DeBryn’s shoulders briefly before dropping to skim his waist, plucking at his shirt and ghosting across the front of his trousers until DeBryn gasped. His hips tilted forward into the fleeting pressure but Morse murmured into his mouth, a steadying hand on his hip to nudge him back. He rubbed circles with his thumb over DeBryn’s hipbone before wrapping his arm around DeBryn to clutch thick handfuls of his pullover as he tilted his head and kissed DeBryn deeply, slanting his hips to drag the firmness of his arousal across DeBryn’s, until DeBryn’s knees trembled under him and he clutched at Morse’s belt.

‘Can we go upstairs–’ he began, just as Morse murmured in his ear: ‘Have you ever?’

DeBryn blinked, his mind fogged with desire. ‘Have I ever what?’

‘You know.’ Morse smudged a lush kiss across his mouth. ‘Watched a dirty film.’

DeBryn blushed deeply; the flood of heat rising from under his collar and all the way up to his hairline.

‘For obvious reasons, they’re not quite my cup of tea,’ he got out, his arousal waning slightly at the mental images.

‘No.’ Morse huffed softly, and DeBryn inhaled sharply at the warm breath. ‘I mean, with two men. You must know they exist.’

DeBryn’s pulse leapt, his desire surging at the thought of watching two men kissing each other, touching each other. Morse – his hips pressed tightly to DeBryn’s – smiled a satisfied half-smile and lowered his head to kiss him again as DeBryn pushed his hands under Morse’s jacket and gripped folds of his shirt, almost hauling it out of his trousers as Morse kissed him, greedy and insistent as his fingers plucked DeBryn’s bowtie free of its knot and opened his collar.

‘Here?’ Morse asked, his voice rough and his hand resting on DeBryn’s belt, inches above his erection, and DeBryn shuddered with lust and temptation, but managed, ‘No. Upstairs.’

‘Alright.’ But Morse made no move until DeBryn pushed him back, gasping for breath.

He was hard, his cock pressed awkwardly down in his underwear, and as he swallowed and tried to calm himself enough to move, he grew conscious of Morse watching him.

‘ _God_ ,’ Morse breathed, and before DeBryn could ask what was wrong he leaned back in, pressing a quick hard kiss to the corner of DeBryn’s mouth before turning away and flinging an impatient, ‘Come on then,’ over his shoulder.

Upstairs Morse snapped on the bedside lamp and paused to twitch the curtains closed before loosening his jacket. DeBryn, entering the bedroom after him, crossed the room to quickly still his hands when Morse would have torn off his bowtie.

‘Wait, let me.’

Morse’s hands fell, and DeBryn breathed deeply and began to work at the neat black bow.

What need had he for pornography? When Morse himself was infinitely more desirable than any anonymous young man could ever be, Morse standing there with the crisp creases of his trousers fitting close to strong thighs, and the silky line of his jaw waiting for DeBryn’s kisses, and broad shoulders tapering to a firm waist.

DeBryn loosened the tie but left it hanging around his neck, and was halfway down Morse’s shirt buttons when he pressed his hand flat to Morse’s stomach. ‘Sit.’

Morse glanced behind himself, desire flickering briefly into a moment of surprise. ‘There?’

‘Yes.’ DeBryn steered him gently to the low armchair.

The rub and press of his cock in his underwear was sending shivers of mingled pleasure and discomfort through him, and when Morse sat DeBryn sank to his knees and breathed deeply as the fabric of his trousers pulled tight across his groin. Morse looked to be in much the same state, and when DeBryn cupped his hand over the heavy bulge between Morse’s legs, Morse’s teeth caught at his lip.

‘You...’ Morse leaned forward, reaching for him, and DeBryn kissed him but resisted when Morse tried to raise him up off the floor and draw him into the chair.

‘Here,’ he muttered, feeling the faint prickle of embarrassment even as he loosened the last buttons on Morse’s shirt and drew the sides apart, baring him from throat to stomach. ‘Like this.’

DeBryn pressed Morse back into the chair and Morse went without argument, his knees twitching apart for DeBryn to kneel between them. He lifted his hips slightly as DeBryn worked at his belt buckle with trembling fingers, and his hands feathered lightly across DeBryn’s jaw, his nape.

Surely it wasn’t normal to be so aroused at the prospect of the act, on his knees at a man’s feet. Often men of his persuasion did it from a sense of reciprocity; DeBryn should know, he had certainly been on the receiving end of a distinct lack of enthusiasm enough times. Surely it wasn’t quite proper for his mouth to be flushing wet with hunger, for his hands to shake and his own cock to be thick and stiff with want, as though he were the one being pleasured.

Morse’s hands lifted his glasses gently from his face and DeBryn closed his eyes, unable to meet Morse’s gaze. He stroked briefly, appreciatively, along Morse’s stomach and firm thighs before he drew Morse’s cock out through his opened trousers, and licked along the underside to take it hungrily into his mouth.

Above him Morse’s sigh held a touch of a groan, his hands falling away from DeBryn’s head to fasten onto the arms of the chair. DeBryn curled his hand around the base, squeezing lightly, absorbed in the crush of rough hair against the side of his hand, the thick length pressing between his lips and against his tongue, and the softness of the tip that made Morse groan when DeBryn drew back to pay particular attention to it. The scent of arousal filled his nose: Morse’s soap, and clean cotton warmed by skin, and beneath it all a musky scent that sent desire twisting through him.

DeBryn risked a glance up. Morse was leaning back in the chair, his hair falling over his forehead, a flush high on his cheeks. The long line of his throat – bared by his opened shirt – worked as he swallowed, his chest hitching as he struggled to breathe through his pleasure. He was still wearing his cufflinks, and the contrast – his wrists and hands still so prim and correct when his cock was sunk deep into DeBryn’s mouth, making saliva run down to slick his grip at the base – made DeBryn groan under a fresh wave of want.

He worked his mouth slowly up and down Morse’s length, wanting it to last, wanting to keep him here like this: debauched and undone with pleasure and DeBryn’s, in that moment he was entirely DeBryn’s, body and soul.

Whether Morse sensed that this was as much for DeBryn as for himself, or whether he was simply in the mood to take his time, he merely leaned back in the chair, hands fluttering to touch lightly at DeBryn’s hair, his face, his breath shaking and erratic and the most wonderful sound DeBryn had ever heard.

The thick press of Morse’s cock on his tongue was making him salivate; his whole hand was wet where he gripped the root of Morse’s cock and as DeBryn moved his slick fingers another impulse gripped him.

He lifted his head, Morse’s cock sliding free of his mouth as he gasped for breath, and above him Morse groaned through gritted teeth, but almost immediately opened his eyes and leaned forward.

‘That was fantastic,’ he murmured, one hand on DeBryn’s shoulder and his other thumb stroking across DeBryn’s wet lips, ‘now come here and let me–’

‘Come forward.’ DeBryn gripped Morse’s thigh, the other hand rummaging frantically through the pile of mending on the floor by the chair. ‘Come here, slide forward and lift your arse.’

He was grabbing, yanking at Morse and using his clean hand to haul roughly at Morse’s trousers, dragging them halfway down his thighs, and Morse let DeBryn move and position him how he wanted, even lifting his hips so DeBryn could shove an old shirt under his bare arse.

DeBryn couldn’t articulate it, not even to his lover, not even when Morse was bare from throat to groin and with his trousers rucked halfway down his thighs, but thank goodness Morse caught on when DeBryn’s wet fingers trailed down across his inner thighs and back.

‘Oh.’ It was difficult like this, with Morse’s trousers loosened and tugged down only just far enough to allow access, but DeBryn curled his wrist and was rewarded with a ragged moan when he managed to work two fingers inside Morse.

It sent Morse half-mad. He didn’t grab at DeBryn’s hair – even in the throes of passion he was too gentle a soul for such a thing – but his fingernails dug into the upholstery of the chair and he gave voice to his rising pleasure as DeBryn crooked his fingers, working his mouth rhythmically along Morse’s cock and lingering over the head, salt-sharp now as his body wound tighter.

DeBryn didn’t want it to end. Even when his wrist began to ache, crooked at an impossible angle, and his jaw was sore, Morse’s thighs were trembling where they pressed tightly against his shoulders and his moans grew increasingly ragged. His cock was like steel in DeBryn’s fist, straining away from his flat stomach to DeBryn’s mouth and DeBryn, his face burning and sweat prickling his temples, used every lewd trick he knew. He let the head drag over the inside of his cheek, stroked his balls, and rubbed his tongue tightly against the sensitive spot halfway up the shaft until Morse gave a breathless cry and his cock began to pulse sharply against DeBryn’s tongue.

DeBryn swallowed, and swallowed again, staying as long as he could before he had to sit back, coughing a little and dragging the back of his wrist across his mouth. Morse sank back in the chair, his chest heaving, but after a few moments he sat up, reaching awkwardly under himself to fish the shirt out and pushing it over his groin and between his thighs, shivering a little at his own touch.

Then he was wadding it up and dropping it to one side, hands reaching to caress DeBryn’s face, his shoulders, where he still knelt on the floor.

‘You now,’ he said softly, and DeBryn shuddered at the promise.

He was so hard he ached. A hand was all he needed at this point, and even that wouldn’t take long, and he opened his trousers before Morse’s hands settled on his wrists, stopping him as he reached in to touch himself.

‘No. On your feet.’

‘I can’t,’ DeBryn bit out, voice shaking. His legs wouldn’t hold him, and he moaned the next instant as Morse’s hand slid down along the backs of his own and dipped into his opened trousers. Morse rubbed firmly along his length, covered by damp cotton, caught awkwardly in his underwear, and leaned forward to kiss DeBryn as DeBryn gasped for breath and pressed his hips forward urgently into Morse’s hands.

‘ _Festina lente_.’ Morse spoke the words gently against his mouth, as DeBryn’s face burned and he squeezed his eyes shut, pushing his cock rythmically against the warm curl of Morse’s palm. ‘ _Tempus edax rerum_.’

Whoever would have thought that Latin could sound so unbearably erotic, and DeBryn tilted his face up and kissed Morse blindly, ignoring the teasing advice and thrusting harder into Morse’s hands because that was it, he was almost there: his back was arching, his balls drawing up tight and sensitive, the delicious ache at the root of his cock, and just a few seconds more would do it–

Morse slid his hands out of DeBryn’s underwear and DeBryn gave an agonised noise of frustration as the edge of climax receeded. Morse kissed his cheek, giving him a moment to calm himself, and DeBryn breathed shakily until he was able to lift his head and kiss Morse’s smile. After a further moment, he had even recovered himself enough to mutter darkly, ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

This won a huff of breath from Morse; that surprised laugh of his, as though taken off-guard at his own capacity for amusement, and DeBryn smiled helplessly.

‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ Morse promised, thumbing at DeBryn’s jaw and stealing another kiss.

‘You’d better.’ DeBryn tried to sound annoyed rather than pleading as Morse unfolded himself from the chair, all easy grace now he was sated. He reached down to grip DeBryn’s elbows, steadying DeBryn as he rose awkwardly and nearly stumbled.

‘Take these off.’ Morse plucked at DeBryn’s shirt buttons, his belt, careful not to brush against his arousal, and DeBryn struggled out of his clothes, leaving them where they fell, and watched with avaricious gaze as Morse removed his evening suit in an ingenuous striptease.

‘Lie down.’ Morse was crowding him back to the bed and DeBryn went, clumsy with desire, and Morse quickly tugged the sheet and blankets out of the way before pressing DeBryn down onto the bed.

‘Morse,’ DeBryn murmured, perilously close to a whine. ‘Please.’

Begging, how undignified, but he had waited so long and his desire was pounding in his blood, making him ache. He lowered his hand to stroke himself, trying to take the edge off, and Morse allowed him a few moments before gripping his wrist to pull his hand away.

‘Let me.’ But he paused to kiss DeBryn, biting at his mouth until DeBryn’s cock twitched, pressed tightly against Morse’s thigh.

‘Here.’ Morse broke away to push a couple of pillows roughly against the headboard. ‘Lean against these.’

At this point DeBryn was too wound up to query and he obeyed, sinking back against cool softness that was such delicious contrast to the heated ache between his legs.

While he shifted Morse was also moving, sliding down the bed and pushing DeBryn’s thighs open to lie between them, and when he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the top of his thigh DeBryn’s cock throbbed and he struggled for breath.

‘Watch,’ Morse suggested, into his hip, not lifting his eyes to DeBryn’s face.

And with that he reached between DeBryn’s legs, brushing warm fingertips along the side of his cock before drawing it into his mouth.

DeBryn’s eyes closed immediately, his heart pounding wildly and a moan tearing itself free of his throat. But the next moment he forced his eyes open and, half-blinded by pleasure, looked down to see his cock pushing between Morse’s lips, Morse’s long fingers curled around him, and DeBryn bit his lip hard.

He bore it as long as he could. He fisted his hands in the bed sheets, obeying Morse’s command to look, to see, watching his own knees spread wider, offering himself up to the teasing press of Morse’s mouth, the slow dirty slide of his tongue along his length.

DeBryn lasted longer than he had thought he could, when he was kneeling between Morse’s feet and about to finish himself right there. He breathed deeply and let Morse set his own pace, wanting to prolong the pleasure of it even as his breath grew ragged and he strained desperately towards his finish.

It took all his reserves of patience and self-discipline but eventually not even the wish to draw it out, or the desire to please Morse, could hold back his desperate need for release and DeBryn closed his eyes and gritted out, ‘ _Please._ ’

Thank goodness Morse understood: he sped the pace of both hand and mouth as DeBryn’s thighs shuddered, his heels sliding against the mattress, his stomach muscles tightening and curling his body in on itself until he spent himself in great shaking waves of pleasure.

Afterwards – after he had fallen back against the pillows, heart pounding and vision blurred, sweat trickling down the side of his face – Morse crawled up the bed to collapse beside him. His mouth was flushed red, and DeBryn’s hot face warmed further at the sight as he touched a fingertip gently to a shiny streak on his chin.

‘That...’ DeBryn’s voice cracked; he cleared his throat and tried again. ‘You...’

More smiled at him, a lazy smile full of affection and satiation, and DeBryn’s heart turned over.

‘Come here,’ Morse said softly, closing his hand about DeBryn’s wrist and DeBryn let Morse pull him down, winding their limbs together until DeBryn’s head rested on Morse’s shoulder and Morse’s hand cupped his head, fingers scratching lightly through his hair.

Was this how he was, then? Morse, in love? He still hadn’t repeated himself since that startling declaration but when DeBryn lay here like this, his body humming with satisfaction and feeling so cared for, it was hard not to indulge in flights of fancy and suppose he could feel Morse’s affection in his touch.

DeBryn lifted his head, bracing his elbow on the pillow and propping his head on his hand to better see Morse’s face. He was beautiful like this: cheeks still flushed from sex, eyes sleepy, and his hair messy from DeBryn’s fingers. DeBryn rested a hand on his chest, trying to find the right words, and Morse picked his hand up, twining their fingers together, and dropped a kiss on DeBryn’s knuckles.

‘“If ever any beauty I did see”,’ DeBryn murmured, helplessly enchanted, ‘“that I desired and got, ‘twas but a dream of thee”.’

Inadequate to express the depths of his heart, but Morse lifted DeBryn’s hand higher, nosing along his wrist to press his lips to the steady throb of DeBryn’s pulse and DeBryn swallowed. He curled his fingers tighter around Morse’s, as though he could hold him there forever.

Morse spoke against DeBryn’s wrist. ‘Can I ask you something?’

DeBryn’s heart squeezed tight with love. As though there were a single thing of his that Morse couldn’t have for the asking. ‘Anything.’

‘What you said earlier...’ Morse rested their clasped hands on his chest. ‘Did you mean it?’

‘I...’

‘In the morgue. About pastures new.’

DeBryn swallowed and temporised quietly: ‘It was just an idle comment.’

Morse made a thoughtful noise, tucking his free arm beneath his head and DeBryn lowered his face to kiss the milk-pale skin on his upper arm, this secret part of Morse that only he was permitted to see.

‘Perhaps it won’t be necessary,’ Morse said.

DeBryn remained silent.

‘Or I might not pass,’ Morse added.

Again DeBryn found himself with nothing to say; Morse didn’t need him to point out the improbability of that happening to a man who had memorised Fitton’s cover to cover.

Morse’s chest rose and fell as he sighed, and DeBryn unwound his clasp enough to brush the side of his thumb across Morse’s skin, consolingly.

‘I couldn’t imagine leaving Oxford,’ Morse said quietly. His gaze slid briefly distant, looking at other futures that DeBryn could barely imagine, before he blinked and focused. He looked sideways at DeBryn, and said obliquely, ‘Although nobody’s asked me to stay.’

DeBryn dropped his eyes. Only last winter Morse had been talking about going abroad, becoming a teacher, but DeBryn had sense enough to hold his tongue on that score. And as for the other... with a mind like his, and if he was prepared to leave Oxford, the fellow could be heading Scotland Yard in fifteen years’ time. When set against such prospects, what right had DeBryn to try to keep him back?

‘Perhaps you won’t have to leave,’ DeBryn said softly, shying away from all the implications of Morse’s comment, for now Morse’s forehead was creased, his mouth tense. He stroked Morse’s sternum. ‘Forget I said anything, it was an idle comment.’

‘No.’ Morse shook his head. ‘No, you were right. I didn’t...’ He paused, huffed a regretful laugh. ‘I didn’t see it. I never even thought about it.’

When he fell silent DeBryn looked at him, and eventually said, ‘There are other cities. A world beyond Oxford.’

Morse’s eyes were very blue, and very serious. ‘But you’re in Oxford.’

It was enough to make him weak with tenderness, and DeBryn kissed Morse lightly. And then, before he had time to regret it, he offered, ‘I could be elsewhere.’

‘No.’ Morse was already shaking his head, and he laid his thumb across DeBryn’s mouth. ‘I can’t ask you to do that.’

DeBryn kissed the thumb and persisted. ‘You’re not asking. I’m offering. There’s a difference.’

‘But this is your home,’ Morse said, and to that DeBryn had no rebuttal. Morse took his hand again, tangling their fingers together, and glanced around the bedroom. ‘It’s where you want to grow old, isn’t it.’

There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t be a lie. The house had felt like home from the first time he had stepped through the door in the company of the estate agent, and he had thought he would be perfectly happy to spend the rest of his days here.

‘No.’ Morse shook his head again, his jaw set. ‘I’ll find another way.’

‘How?’

Morse looked away, but not quickly enough for DeBryn to miss the flash of worry in his eyes. ‘I don’t know.’

‘If I can... help,’ DeBryn ventured, conscious of his own uselessness but needing to offer something. ‘Anything you need.’

‘I know.’ And Morse’s face softened with a smile that made DeBryn lean over to kiss the sadness away from the corners of his mouth, as though to seal a promise.

\----------

Breakfast again, but this time made by Morse and consequently with rather more elements of uncertainty than a meal prepared by DeBryn.

DeBryn had come downstairs after his shower, buttoning his flapping shirt cuffs, to find the last slices of that week’s loaf starting to burn under the grill while Morse fiddled with the radio, oblivious to the faint scent of charring bread.

DeBryn crossed the room swiftly, hooking the toast out and onto a plate in one quick motion. ‘I hope you like it well-done.’

But it lacked his usual acerbity, because Morse had found the classical station and as Puccini filled the small kitchen his face lit up in pleasure.

‘Mm?’ Morse looked at DeBryn, the plate of toast blackened at the edges, and his cheeks pinked. ‘Sorry. Got distracted. Tea should be ready, though.’

It was companionable, eating breakfast with Morse’s bare feet resting against his beneath the table and the cat begging for a dab of butter to lick off a fingertip. In fact it was tremblingly close to heaven; how had he ever thought himself content with standing over the sink to devour a slice of bread and jam?

He knew better than to expect conversation from Morse while the piece played, but when the music drew to a close and the news began, Morse sighed and DeBryn drank his tea and asked idly: ‘Much on today?’

There was the Clissold death but that was a fairly straightforward robbery, or so DeBryn thought, hence it was a puzzle when Morse’s face clouded.

‘I’ve an appointment this morning.’

‘Oh yes?’ Morse hadn’t mentioned any aches or pains, but if he had a doctor’s appointment they must be serious; Lord knew no-one could accuse the fellow of being a hypochondriac. DeBryn tried to sound off-hand. ‘Anything I can help with?’

‘What?’ Morse looked confused before his face cleared. ‘No, not that sort of appointment. My bank manager wants to see me. I’m overdrawn.’

His curiosity well and truly piqued, DeBryn’s eyebrows raised. ‘Are you?’

A DC’s salary may not be much but it was adequate, or so DeBryn thought. Especially for Morse, whose only extravagances seemed to be records.

‘Mm.’ Morse frowned into his teacup, and DeBryn held his silence until Morse added, unwillingly: ‘My father liked the horses.’

DeBryn made no reply, his brain racing. If Morse gave the bare minimum of information it was because he expected his listener to be capable of working out the rest.

‘I see,’ DeBryn said quietly, his suspicions settling into certainty at the pinch of Morse’s mouth. ‘How much?’

Morse’s shoulders tensed. ‘Enough.’

There was a sister, wasn’t there? Joyce. And Morse had mentioned a stepmother too; perhaps they were struggling since the death of the family’s main breadwinner, and DeBryn could have kicked himself for not thinking of it before.

‘If it’s a question of...’ DeBryn began, singularly out of his depth, and not encouraged by the forbidding slant to Morse’s eyebrows when Morse lifted his gaze from his toast. ‘If you need... Well. That is to say. I have... money. I could–’

‘No,’ Morse cut him off, a touch coldly. ‘I don’t need your charity.’

Of course he would see it like that. ‘It’s not.’

‘And I’m not going to be your... your–’

‘You’re not,’ DeBryn said swiftly, sparing both of them the embarrassment of Morse finishing that sentence. As though Morse would ever consent to being anyone’s kept man. He let a touch of sharpness creep into his voice. ‘And it’s a loan, Morse, not a gift. It’s no more than I’d do for any friend in your situation.’

A lie, but if Morse realised it he had the grace to pretend not to. Instead he bit into his toast irritably. DeBryn did likewise, chewing and swallowing, and couldn’t hold back a mutter: ‘I fail to see how you getting yourself into debt is helpful to anyone.’

Morse drew breath to argue but paused and merely grunted. It wasn’t assent, or even close to it. But nor was it an outright refusal, and DeBryn drank his tea in silence. Best let it lie, and Morse would come around to it in his own time. Or not; DeBryn was under no illusions about having chosen to throw his lot in with one of the stubbornest men in the country.

But really. His salary was more than adequate for his needs; by rights it was intended for a man with a wife and children to support, yet he was a bachelor with few wants. This nebulous arrangement with Morse was as close as he would ever get to a settled family life.

Breakfast was finished in silence, save for the radio. But not an uncompanionable one: when Morse took his plate and cup to the sink he brushed his fingers over DeBryn’s nape. And later, shrugging into his coat, he sought DeBryn out to drop a kiss on his mouth.

‘Have a good day.’

One of Morse’s arms settled around his waist, and DeBryn twitched Morse’s tie straight and slid a hand inside his jacket to rest on his ribs.

‘You too.’ DeBryn returned Morse’s kiss, lingering when Morse tilted his head and bit lightly at his lower lip. The offer of a lift in the mornings was clearly impossible, it would be far too indiscreet, but it galled him all the same to think of Morse having to walk, or wait for the bus.

Morse didn’t seem to mind, though, his gaze clear and untroubled as he cocked his head. ‘I’ll see you this evening, perhaps?’

‘Of course,’ DeBryn began, before remembering. ‘Actually I agreed to go for a drink with some colleagues.’ He bit his lip. ‘Although of course you’re welcome to let yourself in, if you like? I should be back around ten or so.’

‘Alright.’ Morse dropped another kiss on DeBryn’s mouth. ‘Until later, then.’

That would make it the third time in as many days that Morse had spent the night in DeBryn’s bed; it was beginning to feel close to an established domestic routine and DeBryn smoothed his fingers across warm fabric and firm muscle, trying to make himself let go.

‘And I’m borrowing your copy of _Godot_.’ Morse held up the slim volume. ‘Alright?’

‘Of course. Take whatever you please.’

Morse’s smile at this was shy and utterly enchanting.

With a last affectionate slide of his hand down DeBryn's arm, he turned and was gone, and DeBryn returned to the kitchen, his heart straining in his chest under the sheer happiness he felt. Earlier, while Morse was putting his shoes on, DeBryn had tucked a scrap of paper into the inside pocket of his jacket for him to find, a playful jibe for a man who barely bothered to iron his shirts and whose hair resisted all efforts with the comb.

_A careless shoe-string, in whose tie_  
_I see a wild civility:_  
_Does more bewitch me, than when art_  
_Is too precise in every part._

But borrowing other’s words was a poor substitute for using his own, however clumsy and ineloquent, to confess his heart.

\----------

Given that, in the past, DeBryn’s job had taken him variously to the banks of the Cherwell to the top of Oxford’s spires, from looking up obscure poisons in the Botanic Gardens to tracking a tiger through Wytham Woods, it was impossible to define precisely what constituted a normal day. Nevertheless it was an otherwise unremarkable morning when DeBryn got the call: a shooting outside the Wessex Bank.

A police officer shot, in fact, and DeBryn’ heart clenched cold with foreboding before he forced himself to breathe deeply and relax. Oxford was full of police officers. And likewise full of banks; Morse hadn’t mentioned which he used. And anyway, his appointment had been yesterday morning; this morning he had merely routine following up lines of investigation, he had said so himself over breakfast.

But the gnawing fear in DeBryn’s stomach didn’t abate until he had arrived at the scene and established that the victim was PC Owens. Shot in the gut, a nasty way to die. There had been an ambulance on the scene but they had been useless; the fellow had been dead shortly after their arrival.

It may have been straightforward but it still merited attention, so it was only when DeBryn raised his head that he noticed the multiple police cars on the street. A touch excessive even for a shooting, or so DeBryn thought until he realised they were drawn up around the bank.

He blinked. ‘Dear God.’

‘Doctor.’

DeBryn turned to find Strange at his elbow. ‘What on earth is going on?’

‘Bank robbery.’ Strange’s good-humoured face was grim. ‘A couple of dozen hostages in there.’

‘I see.’ DeBryn hesitated. It didn’t do to assume the worst, of course, and yet... ‘I might hang around, in that case.’

Strange nodded. ‘If you could.’

As Bright walked up to the bank and addressed the skittish young man outside, DeBryn chewed his lip against the desire to ask after Morse. He couldn’t see him in the crowd anywhere, although that didn’t mean anything, of course, since he couldn’t see Thursday either.

Worry churned his stomach, but he pushed it down and fished out his cigarettes. Morse was fine. He and Thursday were simply off following up routine enquiries on the Clissold death, and doubtless would be along once they heard. And Morse’s appointment at the bank had definitely been yesterday, thank God, so he was well out of it today.

Yet as the minutes ticked by without bringing any sign of Morse, DeBryn’s disquiet grew. Despite the reassurances he had been giving himself, Morse had a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and the fretful anxiety nipping at him only grew as the minutes slipped by.

It was difficult to say at what point his suspicions began to deepen into a horrible certainty. Possibly when he glanced over to see that almost the entire CID were now present at the scene, but that Morse wasn’t among their number. Or perhaps when Strange took a radio call that even DeBryn – hovering on the edge of the scene, trying not to get underfoot – could see made him pale and hurry over to Bright for an urgent, low-voiced conversation.

‘Dear God,’ DeBryn muttered, as Bright’s head turned sharply to look at the bank, as though he could see straight through the uncompromising stone walls.

Please God, let it not be so. DeBryn worried at his lip for a moment before stiffening his spine. He was the force’s pathologist, was he not? And had a right to ask to be kept informed, and he made his way over to Strange, holding his head high and fighting the urge to pluck worriedly at Strange’s sleeve.

‘Sergeant,’ he greeted Strange, who nodded to him. ‘What’s happening?’

‘They want a bus,’ Strange told him, ‘and safe passage to London Airport.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ DeBryn said, swallowing back his first, considerably less polite retort. ‘I heard. I meant, are they going to get it?’

‘I don’t know.’

It was clear Strange wished to be away, but before he could move DeBryn coughed and said carelessly, almost as an afterthought: ‘Any sign of Morse? I’m surprised not to see him here.’

‘Ah,’ said Strange.

That syllable, on its own, was enough to turn DeBryn’s stomach in dread even before Strange said, ‘The station can’t locate him. He, er. He signed a car out saying he was going to follow up a lead on Clissold but didn’t say exactly where.’

‘I see,’ DeBryn said, his mouth dry. ‘You don’t... there’s no chance he might be inside the...’

He couldn’t bring himself to articulate it, merely cocked his head towards the bank.

‘Oh, I’m sure he’s not.’ Curiously, Strange’s forced heartiness was less comforting than an honest admission of doubt would have been. ‘I’m sure he’ll... well, that he’ll be along any minute. As soon as he hears.’

‘Yes,’ DeBryn said, through numb lips. It would serve no purpose to point out that most of OCP was here by now, and that Morse would already have moved heaven and earth to join them if he were remotely able to. ‘Yes, I see.’

Strange made to move away, then paused. ‘Might want to hang around, Doctor. Just in case.’

Wild horses couldn’t have dragged him away, but DeBryn only nodded. ‘Alright.’

He had to be content with that. There was no more information to be had and he stood by his car, worrying at his thumbnail as he watched the urgent, low-voiced conversations between knots of officers.

It couldn’t be possible. Not now, not after all they had gone through, for Morse to die by getting himself tangled up in a bank robbery gone wrong, and before DeBryn had even told Morse how he felt. His hesitancy had been foolish; dignity be damned, why hadn’t he simply told Morse.

 _I love you_ , he should have said. _I’ve loved you for a long time now. From the moment I saw you fussing about the stray cat in my kitchen. You’ve remade my world anew._

A sharp sting at his thumb made DeBryn look down to see he had bitten off a corner of the nail, and he swore under his breath, fumbling for a handkerchief to dab at the spot of blood.

He dug out his packet of cigarettes and lit another, his fingers trembling.

Please God that, against all the odds, Morse was safe, and far from this. Please God let him be elsewhere; let him be doing door to door in the remotest part of Oxford, let him be cataloguing old case files in the basement of Cowley Road and bored out of his mind. Please let him, for once in his life, have the misfortune to miss out on being in the thick of the action.

The minutes ticked away and brought no news of Morse’s whereabouts, DeBryn finished his cigarette and lit another, and still the police didn’t seem to be damn well doing anything.

‘Come on,’ DeBryn growled under his breath, watching them standing about. How long could it possibly take to get a bus? Because surely they were getting one, they must see they had no other choice.

An hour, they had said. An hour, and a bus, and safe passage, and at that moment DeBryn would give it to them, he would drive them to the airport himself for the assurance that Morse was safe. The hands on the clock face slipped forward with terrible speed, precious minutes falling away, until at the chimes DeBryn could no longer deny that the hour was well and truly spent.

He approached Strange. ‘That’s the hour.’

‘More or less.’

‘They won’t make good on their threat, will they?’

Strange opened his mouth but what his reply was DeBryn never knew, for at that moment a gunshot rang out from inside the bank and DeBryn’s world shattered.

\----------

Afterwards, when it was over and DeBryn could think again, he sat in his car outside the bank and stared down at his shaking hands. Outside there was activity – police removing the barriers, the cars slowly pulling away, the hostages being wrapped in blankets and given hot tea – but it all seemed curiously distant, as though he were viewing it through plate glass.

Shock, presumably. It wasn’t every day that one came so close to losing the single most precious thing in life, and all the while unable to betray the fact. He would have dearly loved to have joined the others drinking tea, but it was quite impossible. His skills at deception were nowhere near good enough to pretend he wasn’t in a dreadful state.

He had held himself together fairly well. At least, up until he had heard that terrible shot, and his nerve had failed him and he had gone running headlong. Heedless, like a man with nothing to lose. Like a man whose beloved was in mortal danger.

He dug out his cigarettes; his hands were still shaking enough that it took him three matches to light one.

That impulsive dash had been foolish. What had he seriously imagined he was going to do? One unarmed man, against Lord knew how many armed robbers? All he had achieved was for Strange to nursemaid him back to a safe distance, and he could only hope Strange had too much else on his mind to contemplate the reason behind DeBryn’s actions.

Outside the car, his inactivity was drawing increasing attention from the police officers as they dispersed to their cars. Well, it was rather unusual for him to linger at a scene for so long. He stared dumbly at the steering wheel, trying to muster the will to fish out his car keys. Yet he couldn’t seem to match the action to the word, and when he reached into his pocket he instead drew out his notebook. He flipped it open and stared unseeingly at a page, pretending to be absorbed in re-reading his notes.

It had been such a close thing; Morse had been so near to death. He was fine now, of course. In fact he was in a much better state than DeBryn himself at that moment. DeBryn had glimpsed him leaving the bank with Thursday, the graze on his cheekbone not deterring him from talking animatedly, hands gesturing, glancing neither to the right nor to the left, and certainly not to where DeBryn knelt by the body of the sole fatality. DeBryn hadn’t even spared a thought for discretion, for veiling his gaze in front of most of the CID, so desperate was he to see Morse whole and unharmed.

A tap on his car window startled him, and he squeezed his trembling fingers tighter around the notebook and turned his head to see Strange. He wound down his window.

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry to disturb you, Doc. But there’s a bloke here looking to speak to the pathologist. Says he has something to give you.’

DeBryn frowned. ‘If it’s evidence then that should go to you, Sergeant.’

‘I know, I told him that.’ Strange jerked his head and DeBryn noticed for the first time that there was a man hovering behind him. ‘But he won’t. Says it’s not to do with the case. I’ve tried to put him off, but’ –Strange shrugged apologetically– ‘he’s insisting. Says it’s important.’

Strange turned. ‘Sorry, sir, but I’m sure that whatever it is can be dealt with by a police officer–’

‘But I _must_ see him.’ The man stood his ground against Strange’s clumsy attempts to shepherd him away. ‘The police won’t do, it’s nothing to do with the shooting.’

‘Then there’s no reason you for you to bother him–’ Strange began, clearly exasperated, but by now DeBryn’s curiosity had been aroused and he opened his car door.

‘It’s alright, Sergeant, I can spare a minute.’

DeBryn got out of the car and the man stepped past Strange, looking vindicated.

‘Thank you, Doctor. I wanted to–’ the man stopped, glancing over his shoulder to Strange waiting within earshot. ‘In private, I said.’

Strange opened his mouth but DeBryn nodded to him. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

When Strange had retreated, DeBryn said, ‘How can I help you, Mr...?’

‘Hogg,’ the man said. ‘Doctor, actually. But call me Jerome.’

DeBryn nodded. ‘Doctor Max DeBryn.’

‘It’s just a small matter, but I had the feeling it was rather personal and that he wouldn’t thank me for spreading it around.’

DeBryn was lost, and had no time for riddles. ‘To whom are you referring?’

‘Oh yes.’ Jerome shook his head at himself. ‘Forgive me, I’m rather shaken still. I gather you know Morse. Detective constable?’

DeBryn swallowed hard and his voice emerged reasonably steady. ‘I do, yes.’

‘He slipped me a piece of paper in there that I was to pass on.’

DeBryn pursed his lips impatiently. ‘Any evidence should go to Sergeant Strange.’

‘It’s not evidence.’ Jerome drew closer. ‘It’s a note. A message.’

‘Oh?’

‘You see, there were one or two moments in there where I don’t mind telling you that I thought we were for it. Morse rather more than the rest of us, to be honest.’

‘Yes,’ DeBryn murmured. It was nothing more than he had known already, but hearing it confirmed was like reliving it.

‘I suppose Morse must have thought so too’ –Jerome reached into his pocket– ‘for in the confusion he slipped me this.’ He withdrew a folded sheet of notebook paper, and DeBryn’s fingertips tingled with the impulse to snatch it from him.

‘He said that, if anything were to happen to him, I was to get it to the pathologist.’ Jerome turned the note over in his fingers. ‘He said Doctor DeBryn would see it got to the right person.’

DeBryn took the folded paper, glimpsing the dearly familiar scrawl but not allowing himself to open and read it. Not in front of this fellow, with his inquisitive eyes.

‘Thank you.’ He tried to sound calm, professional.

‘Of course, he may no longer want to.’ Jerome shrugged. ‘But perhaps you could return it to him and let him decide.’

‘Yes.’

‘Glad to see he’s moved on, though.’ Jerome cocked his head, unashamedly curious. ‘Such a dreadful shame about his engagement.’

DeBryn’s sense of discretion warred with his hunger for scraps of Morse’s earlier life.

‘I gather he was rather upset over it,’ he murmured.

‘Upset? Oh my. He was devastated, I’ve never seen a more pitiable creature.’

He had known it, of course. Two years’ acquaintance had demonstrated that, where Morse was concerned, still waters ran very deep indeed, and Morse himself had told DeBryn of his fiancée. Yet jealousy squirmed ugly in his chest.

‘Indeed?’ he managed.

‘One who gives his heart unreser vedly, I fancy, when he makes up his mind to do it. None of us were surprised when he left.’ Jerome paused a moment before nodding at the paper in DeBryn’s hand. ‘Still, it seems he has someone new, though? He sounds rather attached.’

So the nosy fellow had read it, had he? DeBryn curled his fingers around the paper and thrust it deep into his jacket pocket, as though to protect it from further perusal.

‘Yes, well,’ he said, trying not to sound ungracious. He shook Jerome’s hand, ignoring the coaxing lilt to Jerome’s voice that invited DeBryn to share details on Morse’s new amour. ‘Thank you. I’ll see it gets back to him.’

‘And tell him I’m pleased for him,’ Jerome let DeBryn’s hand fall. ‘He could do with a bit of looking after.’

‘Yes.’

When Jerome had left DeBryn got back into his car. The piece of paper was fairly burning a hole in his pocket and he fished it out, almost tearing it in his haste, and unfolded it.

_If death and time are stronger,_  
_A love may yet be strong._  
_The world will last for longer,_  
_But this will last for long._

DeBryn’s throat constricted, his mouth trembling and his vision blurring, and he pressed a hand to his lips. Dear God, it could all have been so very different. But for the vagaries of chance it might have been Morse’s body he had been required to examine, to solemnly pronounce dead and remove for post-mortem. And DeBryn would have had to go on, to find some way to live through the rest of his days with only this scrap of paper to sustain him. To live with the knowledge that he had said nothing, that Morse had died not knowing he was loved, even adored.

DeBryn dashed his fingertips roughly across his eyes. He could hardly sit around weeping over the note at the scene, of all places, not unless he wanted to undo all of Morse’s cleverness and discretion, and he shoved it back into his pocket and started the engine, longing for the quiet and solitude of his morgue.

He accomplished the drive like an automaton, and pulled into his allocated parking space and blinked, with no very clear memory of the route he had taken to get there. And in the morgue he hardly fared any better; whole chunks of time seemed to disappear without him being able to account for them.

He was still sitting in his office, clutching his pen and staring sightlessly at a report when the main door to the mortuary opened, and a moment later there was a familiar tap at his office door.

‘Come in,’ he called, and Morse stepped into the room.

‘Hullo.’

‘Morse.’

The sight of him brought a rush of emotion – gratitude and fear and love – and DeBryn looked down and gripped his pen tightly.

‘What are you still doing here?’ Morse leaned against wall tiredly, his hands shoved into his pockets.

‘Working.’ DeBryn indicated the papers on his desk, although in reality he couldn’t have said what they were even had his life depended on it; he seemed to have spent the last hour replaying the morning in his head, trapped in that awful half-hour after the gunshot where he had thought Morse dead.

‘Working?’ Morse frowned. ‘At this hour?’

He looked exhausted. His tie was loosened, his hair tousled, and the graze on his cheek stood out livid against his pale skin.

DeBryn bit his lip against all the things that wanted to spill out. ‘Of course at this hour; what else should I be doing in the middle of the afternoon?’

‘Middle of the...’ Morse’s face flickered with concern, and he spoke gently. ‘Max. It’s nearly eight o’clock.’

DeBryn blinked, confused. ‘No. It can’t be, I just...’

In a couple of strides Morse had crossed the room and was taking his fountain pen out of his hand, the ink dried on the nib.

‘I’ve just been to your house but you hadn’t been home,’ he murmured, replacing the cap on the pen. ‘The cat hadn’t been fed. So I walked the route you usually drive, thinking I might see the car pass, but I didn’t expect to find you still here. What have you been doing all this time?’

DeBryn watched his movements, vague and light-headed. ‘I... don’t know, actually.’

When Morse gripped the back of his chair DeBryn turned obediently to face him.

‘You don’t know?’ Morse asked, his voice sharp.

He crouched down in front of DeBryn, frowning up into his face. ‘Are you feeling alright?’

Not in the slightest. It had been a wretched day but he could hardly ask for sympathy from someone who had had it far worse than him.

Morse squinted at him closely. ‘Did you not want to go to your bridge evening?’

DeBryn blinked at him owlishly. ‘Bridge evening? Was that tonight?’

That had been last night, surely. Save that last night he had been working late, so perhaps not. He seemed to have lost time somewhere.

‘You’re freezing.’ Morse had caught one of DeBryn’s hands between his own warm palms, pursing his lips in disapproval. He reached up to lay the backs of his fingers against DeBryn’s cheek and DeBryn closed his eyes and caught hold of Morse’s hand, holding it in place.

‘Max.’ Morse turned his hand in DeBryn’s grip, stroking his thumb lightly across DeBryn’s cheekbone. ‘Look at me. Have you eaten anything today?’

DeBryn blinked at him. His head seemed to be full of cotton wool, but he struggled to recall.

‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘We had breakfast.’

Morse’s mouth pinched. ‘Yes, I know we did. I meant after.’

‘I...’ DeBryn faltered. Surely he must have done? But everything after the bank had been a grey fog, and he racked his brain until Morse tutted.

‘Never mind.’ Morse rose easily from his crouch. ‘Come on, I’m taking you home.’

‘Home?’ DeBryn echoed. ‘No, I can’t, I need to... to...’

He glanced at the papers on his desk, but Morse had already gone to lift his coat down from its hook.

‘You’re no use to anyone like this,’ he said bluntly, nudging DeBryn out of his chair. ‘Give me your car keys.’

There was something almost peaceful in no longer being required to pretend that all was well, and DeBryn handed over his keys and let Morse chivvy him out of the office, into the car, and then into his own house.

He fumbled with his coat fastenings until Morse took over, impatient, sliding it off his shoulders before propelling him along the hallway and into the kitchen.

‘Did you not buy bread?’ Morse demanded, pushing him down into a chair and glancing at the empty bread bin.

Oh yes. He had been intending to do so, hadn’t he, after they had finished the end of the loaf at breakfast yesterday, and been reduced to porridge that morning.

‘It’s alright,’ DeBryn told him, trying to make amends. ‘I’m not hungry.’

Morse slanted a look at him, brows lowered, and left the room only to return a moment later with the brandy and two glasses that he set down with a decisive thunk.

‘Drink this.’ He slopped a generous measure into a glass and shoved it at DeBryn, and DeBryn gulped and then coughed at the burn in his throat and down into his stomach.

When he lowered the glass, Morse was watching him. ‘Better?’

DeBryn nodded, once, and Morse leaned against the table to drink his own brandy before letting out a deep sigh and closing his eyes, pressing the tumbler to his forehead. ‘God, what a day.’

The smudges under his eyes were dark as bruises, and DeBryn reached up to brush his fingertips lightly over them.

‘You should put something on that graze,’ he said quietly, and Morse opened his eyes to smile tiredly at him.

Here in this quiet space, just the two of them, the reminder of what he had so nearly lost made grief well up anew in his throat and he looked down, blinking rapidly, into his glass.

‘Max.’ Morse shifted his leg to press his knee against DeBryn’s thigh. ‘Don’t. I’m fine.’

 _But you nearly weren’t_ , DeBryn didn’t say. Morse didn’t need any encouragement to dwell on his latest brush with death; DeBryn searched for something else to say and the words spilled out of him without conscious thought.

‘I love you.’

A sharply drawn breath from Morse. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I love you.’ DeBryn looked up at him, at the shock in his blue eyes. ‘I’ve loved you for a long time now. I... So you have to take care of yourself, you see, because if anything happened to you then I’d... I don’t know what I would do. I couldn’t bear it, I–’

‘Alright.’ Morse was moving, cutting off the tumble of DeBryn’s words, abandoning his glass on the table and sliding down to kneel between DeBryn’s feet. ‘Max, alright, it’s alright.’

He took DeBryn’s glass away and wrapped his hands around DeBryn’s, coaxing him to lean forward so Morse could stretch up to brush a kiss to his mouth.

‘Tell me again.’ Morse was smiling, a different smile than any DeBryn had ever seen from him, one that lit up his face with a quiet joy.

‘I love you.’ DeBryn extracted one hand from Morse’s hold and cupped Morse’s cheek in his palm. ‘I adore you. You mean the world to me.’

It was so easy. All that time wasted agonising over whether and how he should tell Morse, what he should say. And here it had all been for nothing: saying the words felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Morse turned his head to kiss DeBryn’s hand.

‘I love you too,’ he murmured, his words a soft buzz in the cup of DeBryn’s palm. ‘I didn’t say; the last time I said it you didn’t care for it but I–’

‘I know.’ DeBryn pushed his fingers through Morse’s tangled hair. ‘I got your note.’

‘My...’ DeBryn reached into his jacket and pulled out the crumpled scrap of paper, and Morse smiled faintly. ‘I see.’

‘I couldn’t bear the thought that you might die and never know how much you mean–’ DeBryn had to break off, clearing his throat as Morse took the paper out of his fingers and set it gently on the table before folding DeBryn’s fingers into his own. ‘I should have told you weeks ago. Months ago.’

Morse said nothing, rubbing his thumb across DeBryn’s knuckles.

‘It’s selfish of me,’ DeBryn said quietly, all his old worries setting in almost at once.

Morse’s head jerked up. ‘What?’

‘I can’t... we can’t live together.’ DeBryn found himself half-whispering, as though the world would hear. ‘Or even–’

‘Hush. It’s enough.’

‘But you’ll–’

‘I said hush.’ Morse tightened his grip on DeBryn’s hand.

DeBryn let himself be pulled down for a kiss, but muttered unhappily, ‘“It will not end tomorrow, but sure enough ‘twill end”.’ He stirred, his conscience pricking him. ‘Dear God, I can’t. I won’t ask you to give up... to _choose_ to–’

‘I know you won’t.’ Morse looked at him steadily, his expression soft, and DeBryn fell silent. ‘You never ask me for anything.’

DeBryn couldn’t deny the truth of this, his mouth twisting miserably despite Morse’s fond smile.

‘Go on,’ Morse whispered.

‘What?’

‘Ask me.’

‘I...’ DeBryn faltered, sinking under the enormity of it, of what he was demanding Morse forsake: a wife and family, social acceptance, a life lived free of the necessity of constant watchfulness. ‘I can’t.’

‘Hmm.’ Morse rose to his feet and gripped DeBryn’s forearms, pulling him up and into a loose embrace. ‘Go on. I want you to.’

With Morse’s arms about his waist, and Morse’s chest against his own, it was easier. Easier to be selfish, to ask for the impossible, and DeBryn tucked his face against Morse’s neck, inhaling his familiar scent, and whispered, ‘Then stay. Stay with me. Not forever.’ He swallowed, splaying his hands on Morse’s back. ‘But for as long as you can.’

And under the comforting pressure of Morse’s lips on his temple, DeBryn dared to relax and lean into him, trusting that Morse would keep them both upright. But he couldn’t resist adding quietly, ‘Though the world will last for longer.’

Morse tightened his arms around DeBryn’s waist, silencing him, and his voice was warm with gentle certainty. ‘But this will last for long.’

\--End--


End file.
